


Fire Fire

by LadyintheWalls



Category: Sherlock (TV), The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Battle of Five Armies Fix-It, Bromance, Caretaker Bilbo Baggins, Durins live, Human Smaug, No Slash, Other, Quest, Stubborn Thorin, big brother legolas, soooo much bromance, teenage Aragorn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-17
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-04-21 05:01:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 55
Words: 110,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4815968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyintheWalls/pseuds/LadyintheWalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bard the Bowman struck true, and the Dragon was dead. Or was he? After the destruction of Esgaroth, a strange man washes up on the shores of Long Lake. With no memory of who he is, or the ability to speak, he is taken in by the survivors. While struggling to remember his life before the great fire, he witnesses growing tension between Men, Elves and Dwarves, and a looming battle for a Mountain and the wealth within. In the midst of this chaos, a small creature catches his attention. Could this . . . Hobbit creature hold the key to his lost memories?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fire and Death

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in the Jackson film verse. In my pretty little head, the stranger (or the pale man) is played by Benedict Cumberbatch as he appears in Sherlock. The timeline is a little different so bear with me on that. No pairings, sorry, but plenty of bromance (and fluff) so if you want to go ahead and pair them up, go forth!  
> It's also my first fic so go easy on me :D

Chapter I; Fire and Death

_But all shall fail in sadness_

_And the lake shall shine and burn_

It all burned.

Woodwork collapsed. Boats shattered. Useless weapons splintered. Even the cries of anguish and fear were drowned out by the very force of the billowing smoke.

_Fire . . . death . . ._

_DEATH!_

Eyes snap open to darkness. A darkness that strangles. Pulses. Beats. A mouth gapes, with a natural need for air . . . which does not exist in this darkness. Water is inhaled, flooding the lungs, compressing, tightening. Limbs flail, struggling with the weight of the dark, pushing in, pulling. Eyes seek and find light above. Fierce raging light hovering over the dark, and the body propels forward.

Up and up.

Air. Air now floods the aching chest. The dark ripped apart and hot thick air assaults and soothes. The light dances in orange and red, thickening the very air. Ash, ash and dust stop the air.

_More. Need more!_

But the dark is sucking back in, pulling. Limbs are heavy, tired, surrendering, releasing.

“There’s another!”

Something grips him. Limbs renew and come alive again. Something stays afloat, away from the dark. A barrel. A tub. A boat. Figures move on it—

_Others, like me._

_No. Not like me._

Mans. Hu-Mans. The grip is Wo-Mans.

“Come on!”

Get on the boat. More hands. More Hu-Mans pull and yank. Limbs help. Body emerges, rises, full into the air.

Too much air. Cold. Cold. Chill.

“Oo is it?” one Hu-Man controls the boat.

“Don’t know. Never seen ‘em before,” the Wo-Man is close.

“Stark naked, ‘ee is. Why’s ‘ee naked?”

“Give us yer coat.”

“You what?”

“Give us yer coat! You want ‘im freezing to death!” Something is on him, something stiff and dry and . . . stinks! The Wo-Man wraps it around and around. Can’t move. Too cold—

“Oi! Any more in the water?”

“None alive.”

“Let’s ‘ead to shore.”

Boats. More boats. More Hu-Mans. Moving. Floating away from the fierce light. Why leave the light?

_Cold. Cold._

_Death._


	2. The Pale Stranger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The strange man learns about the world he now finds himself in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning; Alfrid hate. Much much Alfrid hate.

Chapter II; The Pale Stranger

 

Dawn broke with grey skies. A biting wind with promise of winter rolled in mercilessly. The screams and pitiful wails had not stopped. Children were being gathered, clothed and kept warm. The wounded were treated with what little medicine and bandages could be found. The dead were pulled from the water and lined up on shore.

Hilda was not wounded, and the cold didn’t bother her, not after living her whole life on the icy waters. The women of Lake Town were as hardy as the men, and Hilda was no exception. She had not rested or eaten a bite. Now she moved from one end of the camp to the other. The men were busy with salvaging and scouring. Enough women were dealing with the helpless. Hilda had her own task.

Along with blankets and bits of food, her wary eyes looked for clothes. In light of the situation, she felt no regret pulling an extra shirt or robe from the surviving boats and discarded bags. It would have to be share and share alike for a time. And everyone knew it.

Once she’d gathered enough, she returned to her charge. The strange man had not moved. He had not spoken or even really acknowledged the pain around him. He merely sat and stared into nothingness. He wouldn’t even cover himself. Hilda felt she had spent most of the night and early morning gathering up the blankets around him and covering him back up again and again.

“Let’s see then,” she muttered as she plopped down next to him and looked over the clothes she’d found. Most of which were useless; the stranger was inordinately tall, and his limbs were long. The Lake folk tended to be stocky, and except for some of the younger men, they tended to be short.

“Right! This should do. I hope . . .” she held out a shirt and trousers. The stranger stared confused.

“Go on, then. Take it!” she urged, shoving the garments under his nose.

Hesitantly, he lifted his arms. In jerky movements, his long thin hands gripped the clothes. He looked back at Hilda blankly.

“Oh, give me strength. Right, up you get,” after much pulling and swatting, she got him to his feet and marched him to some shelter behind the trees. His legs trembled beneath him, and every step was unsure and seemingly frightened. As if he had only just learned how to walk, or rather how to move.

It took some time, but eventually she managed to dress him—averting her eyes when needed. The whole time, the stranger made no move to help. In fact, the very concept of clothing seemed to fascinate him. Some adjustments were needed. The pants were too short in the legs, leaving most under the calves exposed, but too big around the waist. The blouse was already tattered, and hung loose around his neck and shoulders. She used torn pieces of other garments to bind the pants, but the outfit as a whole did little against the cold. So the thick blanket would have to stay, and standing on her toes, she wrapped it round his shoulders again. He was not impressed with this.

“It’ll have to do. You keep this on now, you hear!” She then took the remaining blankets and started handing them out.

Surprisingly the stranger was through with sitting and staring, and instead followed Hilda around. No easy task since the woman moved quickly, while he still seemed to be figuring out how to use his long legs. Hilda would stop and shoo him away, but he was not dissuaded. As she trudged from one end of the camp to the other, the awkward creature was a few awkward steps behind.

He was suddenly shoved aside by another Hu-Man, one smaller and fouler than the others. He was headed straight for Hilda, though he also could barely keep up with her long strides.

“Oi! Give me one of those!” he said with a mouth full of rotting teeth.

“Go find yer own!” Hilda said without stopping.

“I’ll catch my death in this cold!”

“You’re not in charge anymore, Alfrid Lickspittle.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. In the absence of the master, all power falls to his second, which in this case is my good self. Now give me that blanket!”

And he caught hold of the blankets draped over Hilda’s arms. A tug of war began, and ended quickly.

“Don’t make me laugh!” she said, shoving him away. “You are nothing! I’d sooner die than answer to the likes of you.”

“That can be arranged!”

The blow never fell. The raised arm was caught in midair and the smaller man found himself looking up at fierce grey eyes and a pale face practically snarling down at him. Despite her shock, Hilda could clearly see the grip was no longer hesitant. It was firm and unyielding. Alfrid could only gape and wheeze in fear as the creature continued to advance. Everyone froze at the sight, till a voice broke through the bated breath.

“Enough!”

A man, with a grim face and long dark hair, made his way from out of the crowd that had gathered. The other Hu-Mans let him pass, and listened when he spoke. A much smaller Hu-Man followed after him. Hilda took advantage of this distraction to pull the stranger away. She had to practically pry his hand off of the smaller Hu-Man.

“I wouldn’t go turning on your own,” the grim man spoke again.

“That’s what I say—”

“I wasn’t talking to him, Alfrid. I was talking to you!”

“DA!” Another two smaller Hu-Mans—both Wo-Mans—ran to the grim man, and he embraced them both.

“It was Bard killed the dragon! I saw him with my own eyes!” another aged Hu-Man cried.

“Bard the Bowman!” “Bard the Dragon Slayer!” several Hu-Mans cried out and gathered closer around the grim man.

“Bard . . .” the Hilda Wo-Man said in a softer voice, “what will we do now?”

The grim man said many things that the stranger did not follow, nor did he particularly care to. He could only see that the Bow Man had gained some importance, and his commands were obeyed. As the others scattered to their tasks, Bard’s gaze was drawn to the towering stranger.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“We don’t know,” Hilda answered, “found ‘im in the water last night. Hasn’t said a word.”

Bard’s face remained grim but something close to sympathy crossed his features and instantly he removed his own long coat, offering it to the stranger.

“May not be the best fit, but it should keep you warm.”

Those piercing grey eyes studied the offering, and took it with renewed child-like hesitance. Hilda thanked Bard and helped the stranger into it.

The next few days were rough, and the move towards the mountain was slow. Hilda was often busy, helping with the wounded, as well as the children and elderly—many who were now orphaned or childless. The first few days, the stranger followed her and helped with small tasks like fetching water or medicine. But as the days weighed on, Hilda found herself too busy and the stranger preferred to be alone.

Once they reached the ruins of Dale and settled there, she would have to track him down at the end of the day, trying to coax him to eat or sleep. She was always too tired to pester him for too long, it often ended with her sleeping soundly and the stranger keeping watch.

He did not sleep, and ate very little. This did not weaken him, though his movements continued to be slow and hesitant. The stranger could sleep, but if he did, he was plagued with nightmares. Terrifying images of fire, destruction and death. Faces scream in horror, then are silent. Upon waking, he felt drained, and hungry. For what? He could not say. There was always a fierce taste of metal in his mouth, which made food taste bitter.

As the days passed, he also realized there were things he could do and others could not. He could see in the dark. He could make his body warm even in the coldest night. Despite lack of sleep and food, he did not weaken. His senses were keener; he could see farther away, smell distant things, hear voices far off. All this seemed to confirm the fact that echoed in his mind from the moment he was capable of thought . . .

He was not Hu-Man.

What was he then?

The people of Lake Town assumed he had been a traveler on his way to trade in Esgaroth, but was caught in the flames. They assumed he’d lost his memories, along with his name and former life. The stranger often wondered about that life he had lost, and tried to find it in his moments alone.

He favored his solitude. Only then could he shut out the world, every loud voice, every heightened sound, every repugnant smell of Man flesh and putrid wounds, every texture naked to his eyes.

It was also a relief to use both arms and legs to move. Hilda scolded him if she caught him on all fours, calling him a dog and slapping at him till the straightened up.

He felt limited by this body. Constricted, bound. But in this peace, he would study it. The feel of the flesh. The way the joints linked. How far each ligament could stretch.

A particular scar in his chest, right over the beating pulsing heart, intrigued him. It spread over the patch of skin, like a spider’s web.


	3. Thief in the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The stranger encounters something--or rather someone--that conjures memories from his lost life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of POV shifts, but I'm trying to follow Tolkien's style of shifting POVs . . . sort of.

Chapter III; Thief in the Night

 

Much happened in the coming days. The Coat Man, Bard, had become a figure of power, and was often looked for when decisions were needed. Hilda held standing over the women, and her words were always heeded and followed. For most of the men too of course, possibly due to the stranger’s display on the shore.

Speaking of which, the weasely thing, Alfrid, avoided the stranger like the plague. He was often seen at Bard’s side, yipping and yapping, so if the Coat Man wanted a breather he’d find a way to “run into” the pale stranger, and the weasel would vanish instantly.

Then came the Elves. With one look, as the people of Lake Town swarmed around them and the food they brought, the stranger knew what they were. A single word came into his mind, _Elves_ , though he had no memory of having seen them before.

This was how things mostly worked. Words would emerge from out of the darkness of his mind. He had knowledge, but no memory.

The Elves were uneasy around him, which was fine since he was not fond of their scent. He found it even more repugnant than the Hu-Mans’. He cared little for the affairs between the Elves and the Hu-Mans, though at times, out of boredom, he found himself listening to the endless bickering between the Coat Man, the Elf King and the Grey Man.

Ah, yes, the Grey Man. Though he wasn’t a Hu-Man. Wizard, that was the word that came to him when the aged creature rode into the settlement. This one had no scent, and was far more dangerous than any other creature he had encountered.

The Mountain seemed to be the prize, and what was called treasure in it. All that stood in their path was a small group of Dwarves.

_Dwarves._

The word floated in his mind and echoed. He could not remember what Dwarves looked like, but he knew he would know one on sight. The matter bored him, and he continued to distance himself from everything.

Until, late one night, a scent came to him. A scent that triggered a memory. Was it a memory? Yes. Like the words. The words that floated in his mind from out of the dark.

Only this wasn’t a word. It was a moment. A sight. A sight with smells, sounds, sights . . . and rage.

_Find it. Find the source. Track the scent._

The stranger moved, despite still feeling his long limbs foreign to him, he moved slowly. Quietly.

_Find it. Find it._

The settlement was calm. Few movements. The Elf soldiers waited. The Hu-Mans slept. The three bickered in the king’s tent, while some guards walked about. And one thing moved in the shadows.

It was small, quick and nimble. It sneaked past the Elf guards without making a sound.

_Follow it. Keep to the shadows._

_Difficult to see, but it’s there—_

_I smell you. I feel your air. I hear your breath—_

Pain struck, a paralyzing headache assaulted his senses and the memory leapt back into the dark. But it was a memory. This thing made him remember. It made him more like—whatever he was than anything else he’d encountered.

_Find it. Find it._

_Found it!_

It was Hu-Man like, but not. Smaller. Much smaller, but . . . fair, like an Elf. No word came to him. The little thing bobbed up and down from its hiding place, twitching nervously.

A small Elf-Man thing.

It was almost—comical, seeing it so stealthy despite its nervous fidgeting. It made him . . . smile.

Then a word came to him. One single word floated out of the dark.

_Thief._

With that word came a feeling. A sense. An instinct.

_Catch it._

Without thinking, he let his body move on its own, slither slowly, approach.

 _Catch it_ , the thin voice in his mind said again.

_Catch it . . ._

_And kill it._

**************

 

“There will be no need for war!” Bilbo aimed his last words specifically at Bard. From the little he caught of their conversation outside the tent, he was as adamant to fight as Gandalf. If the Elven king were to find himself outnumbered in this matter, they might stand a chance.

“Very well,” Thranduil answered, not without rolling his eyes again. Bilbo couldn’t help but think how childish this possibly thousand year old creature looked. “We will address the pig headed Dwarves come dawn tomorrow. Should Oakenshield’s madness persist, we fight. If he sees reason, I will withdraw my army.”

A collective sigh of relief resounded in the tent. Gandalf stepped forward and clapped Bilbo on the back. Bard’s gaze met with the Halfling’s and nodded.

“Rest up tonight,” Gandalf said, starting to lead Bilbo out of the tent. “You must leave on the morrow.”

“What?” Bilbo turned surprised.

“Get as far away from here as possible.”

“I’m not leaving!” He yanked himself away from Gandalf’s grasp, and away from the entrance of the tent. “You picked me as the fourteenth man! I’m not about to leave the company now.”

“There is no company,” Gandalf urged. “Not anymore.”

“And I don’t like to think what Thorin will do when he finds out what you’ve done,” Bard said, taking a step forward.

“I’m not afraid of Thorin,” Bilbo stood his ground.

“Well, you should be!” Gandalf snapped, startling everyone. “Don’t underestimate the evil of gold. Gold over which a serpent has long brooded. Dragon sickness seeps into the heart of all who come near this mountain.” At this, the old man glanced in the direction of the Elven king, who had returned to his throne and was watching the discussion with a bored expression.

Gandalf placed his hand on Bilbo’s shoulder and once again started to lead him to the exit of the tent. He smiled warmly down at the Halfling. “Well, almost all who come near the mountain,” he said softly.

“I think you should listen to the wizard,” Bard said, following behind them, “you are welcome to remain here till the matter is resolved.”

“And remain he will,” Gandalf said. “This is not up for discussion.”

Bilbo opened his mouth to protest, but in his haste he ran straight into a wall. It certainly felt that way, though it was actually a pair of very long legs. The instant he collided with them, he was gripped tightly by the shoulders. Startled by the large hands that held him, Bilbo looked up into eerie grey eyes, eyes that stared down at him from a pale face.

“E-excuse me,” Bilbo said hesitantly, taken aback by the man’s strange appearance, and even more so by his determined gaze, fixed upon him.

“Oi! Get off him!” Bard snapped, advancing on the scene. Startled, the stranger released Bilbo. The Halfling stepped back, to Gandalf’s side, who lay a protective hand on his shoulder. “He’s harmless, just a poor wretch,” Bard assured them, then turned back to the stranger. “What are you doing here? You should be with the wounded. Hilda’s probably looking all over for you.”

The stranger’s eyes stayed focus on Bilbo, fierce and intent. Ignoring Bard, he fell to his knees and rested there, at eye-level with Bilbo, who was becoming very uneasy.

“Strange,” Gandalf muttered, “he does not look like a man of Lake Town.”

“He isn’t, far as we know. We think he was a merchant, judging by his looks, probably traveling to Esgaroth, but got caught in the flames. We’ve questioned him but he can’t speak. Can’t remember a thing.”

At this, Bilbo met with the stranger’s eyes.

“Hmmm . . .” Gandalf grunted, seemingly lost in thought. “That’s all it is, then. He’s just trying to figure out what you are. Memory or no, probably never seen a Hobbit in his life.”

_Hobbit . . ._

Bilbo left the safety of Gandalf’s side and moved closer to the kneeling stranger. Even in that pose, the stranger still towered over Bilbo. The Hobbit was a gentle soul, and he placed his hand on the stranger’s arm.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Bilbo said softly. “I hope your memories will return, in time.”

The stranger leaned in closer to Bilbo, his gaze unwavering.

“Percy! Alfrid!” Bard’s voice startled them both. Two men approached as Bard pulled the pale stranger to his feet. “Take him back to the old hospital. Tell Hilda to keep a better eye on him. Alfrid,” he said looking at Bilbo, “find him a bed, and some food. He’s earned it.”

The pale man resisted Percy’s hold on him, but only for a moment. With one last look at Bilbo, he allowed himself to be led away.

“Gandalf—” Bilbo started, remembering the argument before the stranger’s arrival.

“It can wait till morning,” Gandalf said, in a weary tone, “go on and rest now.”

Bilbo huffed, but did as he was told, walking a few steps ahead of the hunched man.

He did not notice that Gandalf had stopped Alfrid and whispered: “Keep an eye on him.”

To which Bard leaned in and added, “Don’t let him leave. If he should try to, let me know.”

 

*************

 

The stranger had allowed Percy to lead him away, but once they were clear of Bard, he’d yanked free of the old man’s hold and hid among the ruins. Percy did not give chase, thinking him—like all the others did—a mindless wretch.

The stranger still kept to the shadows, and on his hands and feet went on to seek out the scent again. The . . . _Hobbit_ . . . that’s what the Grey Man had called it— reminded him of something. It was the closest he had come to grasping that other life he’d lost.

Somehow, the Hobbit was linked to that life. Perhaps it knew, perhaps it remembered . . . 

Tracking the scent again was not difficult, and staying out of sight was as easy. Elf guards had increased, and the Hu-Mans were restless as the night wore on. Perhaps word had spread about the coming morning. Not that it mattered to the stranger.

He finally tracked the Hobbit to a half ruined building, where a small fire had been lit and blankets piled up in a corner. Most of the walls had been destroyed, so the stranger had a perfect view into the small room. The Hobbit was sitting on those blankets, with a bowl in his hands. The weasely man hovered close by.

***************

 

The broth was thin, but it was far more filling than most of the food Bilbo had eaten over the last few days with the Dwarves. With any luck, Thorin would accept the trade, and the company would have proper food again. The dratted Elves will go back to the woods, and the people of Lake Town would have enough gold to rebuild their home and tend their wounded.

The eyes of the pale stranger came to mind. Bilbo thought they looked—lost. Lost and pleading. How many had suffered because of the Dragon? How many had died before he was finally destroyed?

Granted, it was rather difficult to concentrate on any of these questions with that filthy ratty man watching him from the doorway.

“Well,” Bilbo announced, setting the bowl down and leaping to his feet, “not that this hasn’t been charming, but I really must get going.” He moved towards the door, “I’d—uh—appreciate it if you didn’t, you know, tell anyone I’d gone—”

“Sit down!” Alfrid snapped, shoving Bilbo back onto his makeshift bed. Bilbo could only squeak in shock. “You’re not going anywhere. Master’s orders.”

“Master?!” Bilbo scoffed, “Bard said the master had been killed!”

“There’s a new master now, Halfling,” he said, his voice dripping with disdain, “’is name is Bard, the Dragon Slayer. And ‘ee says you stay right ‘ere.”

“Well, Bard the Dragon Slayer is not here, and even if he were, he is certainly not my master!” Bilbo stated, with as much confidence as he could muster.

The doorway remained completely blocked, and the obstacle made no sign of moving.

“I ‘ave my orders,” he simply said and crossed his arms, as if daring Bilbo to keep trying.

Oh, well, Bilbo thought to himself, it won’t be the first time I don’t leave by the front door. He made as if he was moving towards the door again, letting the fool think he was and try to block his path. With that distraction, Bilbo bolted for the large crack in the wall, big enough for a grown man to get through, plenty of room for him. Or there would have been, except the ratty man was faster than he looked.

Bilbo was dragged back into the room by the scruff of his coat, and kept at arm’s length so his flailing feet made no impact.

“Listen to me!” Bilbo struggled, “I have to get back! You don’t understand! I—”

“Yer stayin’ right ‘ere! Stupid Hobbit!” He wound a long arm about the Halfling’s neck, and with his other arm he managed to hold down both his hands.

“Let go of me!” Bilbo cried out, kicking and stomping every which way. “Let go!”

“Sorry, mate, what the master wants, the master gets! And this little piggy,” at this he hauled Bilbo off his feet and shook him, “isn’t stayin’ put! Better fix that—OI! You!” Alfrid called out to a passing Elf guard. “I know you can ‘ear me, pointy! We need some rope over ‘ere!”

Bilbo panicked, and struggled even harder. He tried calling out to Gandalf or Bard, but the arm around his neck was cutting off his voice. It was only by luck that the Elves were little enough impressed by Alfrid, and the guard was clearly ignoring him.

When the guard finally did turn around, the annoying man was nowhere to be seen and all was quiet. So he went on his way.

The truth was Alfrid was too terrified to even make a noise. Scarcely had he called out to the Elf guard, he’d been knocked to the ground. Bilbo had rolled to the other side of the open room, and when he looked up it was to see Alfrid flat on the ground, white as a sheet, and the pale stranger perched over him, looking positively feral.

“N-n-n-nnnow nn-n-nnow,” Alfrid managed to say through a tight throat, holding out shaking hands, “just doing what I’m told! Nnn-no harm done, eh?”

The attack was fierce and quick. Each blow followed by another. It took Bilbo a moment to gather himself and leap at the pale stranger’s flying arms.

“Alright! Alright!” Bilbo hissed, trying not to draw any more attention. He practically threw himself at the long arm and grabbed hold of it with all his might. The stranger stopped and turned.

“I think you got him,” Bilbo grimaced at the sight of the wheezing man, his face bloody and a few yellow teeth missing. If it wasn’t for the sudden throaty snores coming from the open mouth, Bilbo might have mistaken him for dead. The stranger lowered his arms and moved away from the unconscious fool. With one final kick, he turned his full attention to Bilbo. It was the same expectant intensity as before.

“Thank you,” Bilbo breathed, still shaken by the whole thing. “Oh,” he saw the stranger’s hands, knuckles covered in blood. “Better clean that!” he said, taking both hands and using the end of Alfrid’s cloak to wipe them clean. Fortunately, none of the blood belonged to the stranger. Despite having at the ratty man, his hands and knuckles were perfectly fine.

“You’d better clear out,” he said, letting the strangers’ hands drop. “Go on back to the others, pretend you were never here. He’ll probably keep quiet too.” He nodded at the snoring figure. The pale stranger made no sign that he understood him. “It’s getting late, I have to go,” he said, and with one last “thank you!” he leapt out the cracked window.

He was not stopped this time. But he was followed.

 

“No. No. No!” Bilbo huffed annoyed. It was the fourth time he had turned and sent the pale stranger back, and it was getting tiresome.

“For the last time, you can’t come with me! Go on back now!”

Bilbo planted his feet apart and assumed the same pose he’d take when scolding a young Hobbit. “Now, see here!” he said. As if he understood, the stranger dropped to his knees—a little too hard—and met with Bilbo’s eyes. Though Bilbo still had to crank his neck to look up at him, which added to his annoyance.

“You cannot come with me!” he said clearly, shaking his finger at the stranger’s chest. “I am going back to a mountain full of pigheaded Dwarves and a rather delicate situation and the last thing I need is a giant ghost of a man trailing behind me! Do you understand?”

The stranger tilted his head, questioningly.

“I know you understand me. They’re probably worried about you too,” Bilbo said, losing his composure. “There are good people down there, many who have lost as much as you. You have to go back, let them look after you. They’re your people now.”

Bilbo turned, confident his words must have reached him. The stranger only stood on shaky legs and continued to follow him. Bilbo tried to hurry along, but the stranger’s long arms reached out and caught hold of the back of his coat. Not to stop him, but rather to keep up.

The Hobbit couldn’t help but feel touched by the child-like gesture, but he simply had no time for this, and the night was wearing on. He turned to the stranger, and looked right into the eerie eyes.

“I’m sorry about what happened to you, and like someone once said to me, I wish you all the luck in the world,” he said softly, sneaking a hand into his pocket.

“And I am really truly sorry for this.”

And he vanished.


	4. Betrayal and Loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The betrayal of the Arkenstone costs Bilbo his friendship with Thorin, but he finds comfort in a new ally.

Chapter 4: Betrayal and Loss

 

“It is no trick. The stone is real. I gave it to them.”

Silence fell. On the rampart, the Dwarves turned in shock. Below, upon the steps of the ruined gates, the Elf King’s boastful smirk dropped to a surprised scowl. Bard found himself wondering how long it would take him to climb the damn wall if he needed to.

“You?” the word barely made its way past Thorin’s lips as he too turned to look at the confessor.

“I took it as my fourteenth share,” Bilbo said, trying to sound confident despite feeling heartbroken at the look of betrayal in Thorin’s face.

“You would steal from me?”

“Steal from you! No, I may be a burglar but I like to think I’m an honest one.” Bilbo kicked himself mentally. This was hardly the time for comedy! The Dwarves stood uneasily, holding their breaths, while Thorin pierced his very being with fuming rage. “I am willing to let it stand against my claim.”

“Against your claim? Your claim,” Thorin’s voice lowered dangerously. “You have no claim over me, you miserable rat!”

Bilbo recoiled and took a step back. “I was going to give it to you,” he said, his voice shaking. “Many times I wanted to but—”

“But what, thief?” That final “thief” was spoken dripping with derision, practically hissed with disdain. It resounded in Bilbo’s mind and instantly took him back to his meeting with Smaug, that mocking malicious voice and how it savored the word. To hear such an echo of it from his friend was too much, and Bilbo suddenly felt stronger.

“You are changed, Thorin!” he said, taking a step forward. “The dwarf I met in Bag End would never have gone back on his word! Never have doubted the loyalty of his kin!”

“Do not speak to me of loyalty—” Thorin said in such a rage that his words died in his throat. His eyes became wild again and he pointed at Bilbo. “Throw him from the rampart!”

Time froze. Bilbo could not—he would not!—bring himself to believe Thorin had just said that. It seemed that the Dwarves were of the same mind, since no one moved.

Once their king noticed this, he grabbed hold of Fili. “Did you not hear me?!” he cried out, but stopped as Fili tore himself from his grasp and faced his uncle with a piercing look of determination. It was clear then, these Dwarves who would, and did, follow him to certain death, who would have followed him to the very ends of Middle Earth, would not obey this one command.

Instead of being moved by this display, Thorin threw himself at Bilbo. “I’ll do it myself!” He said as he grabbed hold of Bilbo’s coat and dragged him to the very edge, shoving away all the hands that tried to stop him.

“No!” Fili cried out and tried to come between his maddened uncle, but neither he or the rest of the desperate company could stop the rage that drove Thorin on.

“Curse you! Curse be the wizard that forced you on this company!”

“If you don’t like my burglar, please don’t damage him!” a booming voice stopped Thorin in his tracks, just as he had Bilbo pinned over the wall— a fatal drop should he let go. He looked down to see Gandalf, standing tall next to the Elven King and Bard.

“Return him to me!”

The wizard’s appearance seemed to calm Thorin, and he stood there frozen. “You’re not making a very splendid figure as King Under the Mountain, are you? Thorin, son of Thrain.”

His iron grip went limp, and Bilbo, shaken but otherwise unharmed, dropped to his knees. The rest of the company took advantage of this pause. Fili pulled Bilbo to his feet and practically tossed him to Bofur, who pulled the shaking Hobbit away. “Go! Go now!” he whispered urgently and stood guard as Bilbo grabbed hold of the same rope he had used before and started his climb down the wall.

“Never again will I have dealings with wizards or Shire rats!” Thorin announced.

In his haste, and more than likely grief, Bilbo slipped at the very last stretch and would have had a nasty fall. But long thin arms caught him from behind. At first he thought it was Gandalf, saving him yet again. Though he wasn’t too surprised to find it was actually his friend from the night before.

The pale stranger looked even more other-worldly in the full light of day. His limbs and hands were long. His black curly hair was wild and unruly. His pale skin looked almost greyish under the storm clouds, and his eyes took on various hues, depending on the light.

Bilbo didn’t have it in him to thank him. He suddenly felt very weary and wanted nothing more but to sleep. He simply nodded at the stranger and made for Gandalf’s side. Eager footsteps were close behind him.

“Why should I purchase what rightfully belongs to my house?” Thorin challenged.

“Your house, Thorin,” Gandalf answered gravely, “a line of kings which is now your charge. Your name which used to mean something to you. The name of your father."

Thorin froze at this.

“I saw him, Thorin,” the wizard went on. “You were right. Thrain lived, and he lived to tell me this. That he loved his son, as I know you to love your kin. They who look to you now to make the right decision.”

For a moment Bilbo thought the spell was lifted. Thorin looked down at Gandalf with a look of grief and uncertainty, and the passionate Dwarf Bilbo had come to call friend could clearly be seen, beneath the cumbersome armor and unbecoming decorations.

Thorin’s head bowed low, and when he spoke again it was slow and bitter, as if every word tasted foul. “Tomorrow, at noon, the portion that is to be set against the stone will be delivered. The gems of Lasgalen will be among it. You will send a host of your men to retrieve it. If I see a single Elf at my gate, our arrows will fly.”

With this final word, the Dwarf king stalked back into the dark of the Mountain, his loyal Dwarves following after him. The Elf host was silent, seemingly in tune with the satisfied smirk on their king’s face. A general murmur spread among the men. Bilbo could only hear, and relate to, the weary sigh that escaped Gandalf’s lips.

 

The night at Dale was cheerless. It seemed that after all they had suffered, the people of Lake Town did not expect to be so easily rewarded. Surely even now, the maddened Dwarf king plotted something, some terrible deceit or curse upon the gold.

“He’s playing for time,” Gandalf broke the silence. His tent had been set close to the Elven King’s. He’d made up a decent fire outside of it, around which he sat with his pipe, next to him Bilbo lost in thought, then Bard with his usual grim expression, and the pale stranger, his intense gaze now focused on the flames.

“He’s hoping Dain Ironfoot will come in time, with his army from the Iron Hills,” he continued.

“And if he does?” Bilbo asked, concerned.

“Oakenshield will have his war,” Bard said heavily.

“Will Dain not see reason?”

“He’s Thorin’s cousin, and I always thought Thorin to be the more reasonable of the two,” Gandalf muttered.

“Well, that’s that then,” Bilbo heaved.

They fell back into silence as the camp stirred around them. Alfrid walked past, his face still black and blue with bruises. He was clearly looking for Bard, but once he had noticed the company he was in, hastily turned the other way.

“What on earth happened to him?!” Gandalf remarked, though there was more surprise than care in his voice.

“Says he fell,” Bard shrugged.

At the sight of him, Bilbo couldn’t help but shudder, while the pale stranger grinned wolfishly. Bard caught both their reactions, and having witnessed the stranger’s protective nature, it was not difficult to deduce what had occurred.

He rose to his feet. “I’d better find my children. One way or another it will be a long day for us all tomorrow. But first,” a little smirk danced around his lips, and he very subtly cracked the knuckles of his right hand, “I have to see a man about a Halfling.”

Bard turned to the pale man expectantly, but he did not move.

“Not to worry, we’ll look after him here,” Gandalf said.

Bard nodded and vanished into the night. Bilbo sighed deeply, which caught the attention of the stranger.

“You did what you thought was right,” Gandalf said, puffing out smoke from under his moustache. “Never regret that.”

“I just wish there was another wa—OUCH!” Bilbo suddenly cried out and pulled back his feet. The stranger, as it turns out, apparently just noticed the thin tufts of hair on Bilbo’s feet and had started pulling at them. He looked surprised at Bilbo’s reaction.

For his part, Gandalf broke out laughing, as he had not laughed in weeks. The laughter rang throughout the camp, and it was infectious, for suddenly the children of Lake Town, huddled together, started giggling. Men, women, the wounded, even some Elf guards found themselves smirking in spite of their situation. Bilbo too couldn’t help but laugh, once he’d gotten over his outrage.

The stranger did not smile; he looked rather perplexed at the sound of laughter. Gandalf then took a deep breath of his pipe and blew out smoke figures that danced around the fire. He passed the pipe over to Bilbo, who settled for making simple smoke rings which fluttered into the starless sky. The stranger was mesmerized by the smoke figures. His eyes suddenly lit up, and like a cat he pawed at the tiny figures, trying to catch them. He’d strike out his hand, close it around one of the smoke dancers, then open it again, only to find it empty, of course. This seemed to vex him, and he would try again with another and another.

“Interesting friend you’ve made, my dear Bilbo,” Gandalf said, amused at the stranger’s cat-like antics.

“Not so much made as found,” Bilbo answered, “I feel sorry for him. No memories, no home.” His voice dropped at this, weighed down by the thought of his own beloved Bag End, and how that simple image had kept him going in the worst of times. It was difficult to imagine not even having that. “Can you not help him?”

“My strength is rather spent at the moment,” Gandalf said, and Bilbo believed him. He thought the wizard looked much older than the last time they had met. He had not spoken of his own travels, but there were several cuts and injuries still visible on his face and hands. “Perhaps once I’ve done my own healing, I could give it a try. Bodies can heal quickly, but the mind is another matter entirely.”

“He is not from Lake Town, of that there is no doubt,” the old man continued. “His skin is much fairer than the people of Esgaroth, and his hands are not rough and calloused. It’s why they assume he was probably a wealthy merchant of sorts.”

“He looks more Elvish than Man to me,” Bilbo mused. The stranger’s eye color intrigued him.

_Catch it. Catch it. Catch it. Kill—_

The stranger took in a shuddering breath as his hand grazed the fire. Bilbo was on his feet in a flash and coaxed him into showing him the injury.

“There—there’s nothing,” he said surprised as he looked over the long spidery hand. “I saw it touch the fire though. I could have sworn—”

“He has a strong hide,” Gandalf said. The stranger looked up and for the first time, held the wizard’s penetrating gaze. There was something in the way he had said that last bit, something—familiar. Bilbo took no notice of this exchange, and instead settled for scolding.

“Well, you were lucky that time, but mind yourself! Fire bad!”

“Ff—”

Bilbo froze. It almost sounded like the man was trying to speak. “Fire! Yes! Can you say that?”

The stranger’s mouth snapped shut, and his eyes looked anywhere else except Bilbo’s.

“Another day then,” Gandalf said, grunting as he stood, “we might as well get some sleep. As for you, my poor fellow, you’d better hurry back to the old hospital.”

Bilbo stood and made his way to the tent. He was sure sleep would elude him, but he was tired enough to try. As he feared, the stranger stared at Gandalf, but he stayed put.

“I fear he won’t move from here,” Bilbo said.

“No, heaven forbid he be parted from his precious friend,” Gandalf mumbled, but it was still enough to make Bilbo start. The word brought ill memories, and it always made Bilbo wonder if Gandalf knew more than he let on.

“Nothing for it then. If he wants to freeze to death, let him. The fire shall burn through the night. Good night, my strange friend.” The old man waved his hand once more over the fire, then wearily stepped into the tent.

Bilbo quickly took one of the blankets the Elves had given them and threw it about the stranger’s shoulders. He huffed annoyed at this. “Don’t you huff at me, you need to keep warm! Your skin is always so cold. Now, try to get some sleep, if you can,” Bilbo instructed, giving the blanket one final tug and patted the stranger’s shoulders.

He was the only one who touched him, this Hobbit. The Hilda woman touched him, but always quick and rough. The Hobbit would touch him for moments at a time, and a feeling completely foreign would follow. Every one of these “feelings” or “reactions” that came would seem familiar. He knew he’d experienced them before, somehow. While the Hobbit made him remember more than anything or anyone else around, he also confused him. What words were conjured by these touches?

_Gentleness. Warmth._

Before the Hobbit left for the tent, the stranger’s hand flew and caught his wrist. Bilbo froze, startled by the gesture. The stranger turned his wrist back and forth, as if he were examining it. The truth was there were words coming to him, triggered by the very feel of the small limb in his hands.

_Weak. Frail. Warm. Beating. Pulsing. Blood flowing. Flowing strong. Bone is weak. Bone is frail. Could snap. Could crack. Could break._

_Easy—_

_Break it!_

He released the wrist, just as suddenly as he’d taken it. He feared those thoughts, the ones that compelled him to harm the small creature. To destroy. Like the ruins that surrounded them, like the people bereft of everything. The fear in the Halfling’s eyes, and how it could so easily shift into kindness.

Bilbo smiled hesitantly since he was not sure what was going through the stranger’s head. Wishing him goodnight, he turned to the warmth of the tent and the small bed that had been prepared for him. Gandalf was already snoring softly. Bilbo didn’t mind it, not after sleeping so many months next to thirteen snarling Dwarves, especially Bombur and his unholy snoring. Gandalf cooed like a dove in comparison. Tonight though, he rather missed those Dwarvish snores, and without them he found sleep difficult to find.


	5. The Battle of the Five Armies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Battle rages before the steps of Erebor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter this time!

Chapter 5: The Battle of the Five Armies

 

It was a terrible battle.

The orc army had come before the first light even touched the sky. Elves and men were outnumbered, though they fought bravely to protect the people taking shelter in Dale. Things might have gone ill were it not for Dain Ironfoot’s timely arrival. Without a moment’s hesitation, the Dwarf army fell upon the orcs and the tide was turned.

Gandalf had insisted Bilbo stay out of the way, and for once Bilbo did not argue. He was not a warrior. Stupid giant spiders were one thing, but the ferocity of the orcs was too much. Both he and his silent companion stayed with the women, children and wounded, sealed away in the old hospital.

Bilbo, however, was restless. Once he was sure the hospital was well guarded and the people inside safe, including his strange friend, he slipped on the ring and made his way to the top of the fragile structure. There he had a good view of the battle, and watched with muted horror how the shadowed figures of the orcs seemed to overpower the figures of light, which he knew to be the Elves, Men and Dwarves.

Four armies, he thought to himself. So much death, and wanton destruction.

And for what?

Even in the hazy world of the ring, Bilbo marveled at the strength of the Dwarf army. He was anxious however that the Lonely Mountain remained sealed and there was no movement from the ramparts.

Surely Thorin Oakenshield would not stand idle while his kin fought at the gates? Was he so lost in his madness that he will not stir from his shattered throne?

As if in answer to his fears, a great horn was heard on the wind. Something broke through the makeshift rampart, stone and rock splintering in all directions. From out of the dark of the mountain, thirteen Dwarves, clad in full armor, weapons raised, voices crying out, raced into the fray.

“Thorin . . .” Bilbo breathed, scarcely containing his excitement.

“TO THE KING!” The Dwarf army rallied about them and several voices took up the cry.

The Dwarves had their king. Despite the valor and renewed strength, victory still seemed far, until various figures blocked out the sun. Bilbo looked to the skies and called out in utter joy:

“The eagles! The eagles are coming! The eagles are coming!”

Those who heard him looked up and beheld their final hope. The eagle army swooped down upon the orcs and destroyed their ranks. The cave trolls blindly tossed their boulders at the eagles, in a desperate effort to bring them down. One boulder flew over Bilbo’s head, missing him but striking the building above him. Stones rained down upon him, and despite seeking shelter, one struck him and he knew no more.


	6. The Ring Speaks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The stranger is confronted by an interesting piece of jewelry...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, this one is pretty short too :P

Chapter 6: The Ring Speaks

 

Feelings be damned. He was going to kill him.

The stranger snarled when he realized the dratted Hobbit had disappeared again! The first time, it had taken him all night to track him. Not so much because of the vanishing trick, but because his scent had suddenly become masked by another. It was something he did remember, not just its scent but its taste, its feel, its color.

One delectable word came with that harsh scent: gold.

But now, in the middle of a battle, surrounded by the foul stench of the Hu-Mans, Elves, Dwarves, the overwhelming stench of the orcs and the thick smell of metal and rust, how was he supposed to find him?

“I say we stand with our men and fight!” Hilda stood with a spear in hand, rallying the women, those strong enough to hold a weapon, in spite of their age or old wounds.

The women raged, and a small number stayed behind to guard the others in the old hospital. The stranger was torn. The Halfling was missing, lost amidst a terrible battle, but Hilda and her women were about to leap into said battle. He stood unmoved, unsure of his own thoughts.

Why would he even care, one way or the other?

_One dies. Both die. It matters not._

_They all die . . ._

An urgent hand fell on his shoulder, snapping him out of his thoughts. Hilda looked up at him, her hands shaking with adrenaline. “Stay here,” she said, her voice tight. “Keep them all safe!” And she ran, letting out a shrill battle cry which was quickly drowned out by the sounds of war.

The doors to the old hospital were shut, and several women and children barricaded the door. The stranger stood still, as if afraid Hilda would return from the battle just to make sure he’d stayed there. When the barricade grew and proved to hold the doors, he bolted.

_Find him! Find him!_

The scent was faint, and as he feared, the gold was far stronger. He was relieved at least that it was still in the same building. He climbed, higher and higher till there was no more building. And no Hobbit either.

The day was growing darker, and the sounds of war were slowly waning. He dropped to his hands and feet, and with his face close to the ground, he breathed deep. He sniffed, he inhaled, he moved his head back and forth, stretching one long slow limb after another.

Again, the same set of words danced about in his head as he sought.

_I smell you . . . I hear your breath . . . I feel your air . . . Where are you?_

His hand met with something, something unseen. He pawed at the air, until he was able to distinguish a shape. It was small, quickly growing cold. And it was not moving. A new feeling awoke.

_Fear._

He pawed even more desperately, trying to make out the figure. But how could he tend to what he couldn’t see! He remembered then how the Hobbit had touched his hands together when he vanished; fumbling with the invisible inert limbs, he looked for the hands and found it. He would know that cold harsh touch anywhere.

A single piece of gold wrapped around one of his fingers.

As soon as he touched it, it seemed to leap, stretch and slide off. The Hobbit appeared in an instant, and the startled stranger gasped at the sight of blood. A nasty gash on his head, soaking up the brown curls and thin streams of blood sliding across the pale skin.

The Grey Man! He had spoken of healing! The stranger had seen enough pale clammy bodies that never awoke among the people of Lake Town, after the Great Fire. The Hobbit could not join them!

He lifted the small body—perhaps a little too rough—and prepared to run. The gold stopped him. The tiny golden ring gleamed in the dying sun. It beat, like the beat in his own chest. It pulsed and throbbed. It called to him, and the thin voice sounded very much like the voice in his head, the one that urged him to kill, to destroy.

_Agh . . . burzum-ishi . . . krimpatul . . . Krimpatul . . . Krimpatul . . ._

He did not want it. He did not trust it. But a soft moan of pain escaped the Hobbit in his arms, and he feared the Halfling would miss it. He picked it up, and the circlet stretched, as if eager to be worn, and would surely fit, he knew.

The stranger scoffed, mocking the wicked thing, and slipped it in the Hobbit’s coat pocket.

That seemed to still it, so now the only thing heard was the slow heartbeat of the tiny figure. He pressed his ear close to the small chest.

Too slow.

There was chaos, even fiercer than the battle itself.

_Find him! Find him! The Grey Man!_

Hu-Mans ran this way and that. Bodies strewn about the grounds, orc, man, elf and Dwarf alike. Blood and metal permeated the very air. One stench after another.

_Too many! TOO MANY!_

He could not find the Grey Man! The body in his arms grew colder. He snarled in desperation.

_Despair. Helplessness. What is this?!_

No, he had never known this. Such pitiful lacking! He was almost—insulted at this.

He clutched the limp body closer to his own, and tried to warm him. He left the ruins of Dale, still looking for the wizard, but the fields were far vaster than he had thought, and every bit of it seemed full of rising tents, discarded weapons, hurrying creatures and corpses. And the light was quickly fading.

A hand fell upon his arm. It was Hilda. Strong steadfast Hilda, with plenty of scars and injuries to show for her bravery, but still standing. She smiled relieved.

“You’re alright!” she said, smiling in spite of clearly being in pain. “I didn’t see you at the hospital, I thought the worst—” Her blue eyes fell on the Hobbit cradled in his arms, and her relief faded.

The stranger held him out for her to see, eager and even—hopeful. She carefully examined the wound on his head, and pressed her hand over his cold face. She shook her head sadly.

“I’m sorry—” The stranger did not let her finish. He tore away from her with such ferocity, she flinched. “Come on then,” she said, though her voice was heavy, “let’s get him to the healers.”

The old hospital was full, and bedding had been set up in the square outside of it. Tents had been set up, healers, both Hu-Man and Elf, went from one ailing figure to another, and there were many cries of pain, pitiful moans from the wounded, and heart wrenching sobs from the desolate. It seemed no one had time to see to the small creature. Hilda first tried to catch the attention of every passing healer or nurse, but soon her own attention was called away by those in need. The stranger was left on his own, clutching what others simply saw as a lost soul.

Tired and helpless, the stranger fell to his knees, bent over the fading warmth and stilling heartbeat. There were no words coming to him, no voices telling him to do this or that. Not even the contemptuous voice that flooded him with thoughts of death and mayhem had anything to say. He knew soon, it would all fall silent.

“Give him to me,” a voice, clear like water, broke through the dark.

He lifted his head and locked eyes with an Elf. A she-Elf. Her red hair reminded him of fire, and her intent eyes of water. Her face, like Hilda’s, was covered in scars and bruises, yet she was still handsome. She held out her arms, and a light seemed to be emanating from her, though he could see no source for light.

“I can save him,” she said.

Though her voice was weighed by weariness, and her eyes faded with grief, the stranger believed her.


	7. Days in Limbo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the battle.

Chapter 7: Days in Limbo

 

When Bilbo awoke, it was to a strong beam of light piercing through the fabric of a tent. It took him a moment to realize where he was.

At first he could have sworn he had simply dozed off in his armchair by the fire of his sitting room, so the sight of a tent was rather disturbing. Then the memories of the last few months came sweeping back, all of which were ultimately summed up by the devastated look of betrayal on Thorin’s face, and an eerie set of grey eyes staring at him concerned.

“Back in the land of the living?” said a familiar voice.

It was only when he tried to turn his head that he realized just how much pain he was in. His arm felt like it weighed a ton, but he still managed to lift it to his head. A thick bandage had been wrapped securely around his aching head, and a single patch stung like a dagger. His whole body was stiff, and even smiling at the old man sitting at the foot of his small bed felt like an effort.

“Only just,” he managed to say, though his voice was scratchy and dry.

Gandalf stood and poured him some water from a nearby table. It was then that Bilbo noticed the wizard had not escaped unscathed. His arm was in a sling, and he walked with a bit of a limp.

“The Dwarves,” Bilbo spoke after emptying the glass.

“Victorious,” Gandalf said, sitting down again. “The armies of the Iron Hills rallied to their king, and with the aid of Gwaihir, the Wind Lord, and his own army, the orcs were driven out.”

Bilbo couldn’t help but feel pride in his fellowship at this.

“Our losses were numerous, but the land will heal, as will its people.”

Despite these words, there was something in Gandalf’s voice, something he couldn’t place.

“What is it?”

Gandalf heaved a deep sigh. “Thorin was gravely injured. He faced Azog himself and—”

Bilbo sat up at this, felt the world shift all around him and fell back down.

“He lives still, and both Elven and Dwarf healers are with him. I have done all I can,” he said, holding out his one good hand. “I called him back from the brink. Whether he returns, it’s up to him now.”

“He will,” Bilbo said firmly. “I’ve never known a more stubborn soul.”

“I can think of another,” Gandalf said, and some light returned into his grim eyes. “Might I inquire as to your own actions? Just what were you up to, Bilbo Baggins!”

“Nothing,” Bilbo looked away, ashamed, “I was hiding, and watching the whole thing from a safe perch. It was only dumb luck that I was injured—”

A thought came to him then, and his hand suddenly flew to his pockets, only to find he was wearing a clean linen shirt.

“It’s safe,” Gandalf pointed to the blue coat Bilbo had grown fond of. It was filthy and tattered, draped over a chair at a corner of the tent.

It was also then that Bilbo spotted the pale stranger, sound asleep on the ground, with only a few blankets to cover him and pillow his head. Bilbo was relieved to see his strange friend unharmed, but he was too distracted by Gandalf’s words.

“You mean—”

“Magic rings should not be used lightly, Bilbo. Don’t take me for a fool,” he said as soon as Bilbo opened his mouth to argue, “I know you found one in the tunnels of the Misty Mountains and I have kept my eye on you ever since.”

“Ah—wha—you—” Bilbo fumbled, then gave up. “Well, thank goodness.”

“Thank him!” the old man said, pointing at the stranger. “If it weren’t for your bodyguard, who knows when we would have found you. Or if we would have made it in time. It was touch and go there for a moment. You must also thank an Elf guard. Tauriel, I believe her name was. She spent many hours on your injuries.”

“I—I wonder,” Bilbo answered. “There was a beautiful guard who—well, grew rather fond of Kili. I overheard some of their little talks while sneaking around the Mirkwood dungeons. I wonder if it’s her.”

“You’ll meet her soon enough,” and Gandalf rose again, “but for now, get some sleep.”

“But Thorin—”

“I will wake you when there is news. I should not want to have to drug your water as I did our snoozing friend over there. I’d been told he hadn’t slept in days, the exhaustion would have killed him,” Gandalf defended when he saw the look of shock on Bilbo’s face. “Or someone would have! He was getting on my nerves. Pacing about like mad, to and fro, like some caged wolf.”

Bilbo couldn’t help but laugh a little. Gandalf hovered for a moment over his bed, then a tender smile crossed his face. “You are a very fine person, Mister Bilbo Baggins,” he said placing a comforting hand on Bilbo’s shoulder, “and I am very fond of you, but you are just a little fellow in a wide world after all.”

And with that, he left the tent. Bilbo settled further back into the bed, envying the oblivious peace present in the pale stranger’s face as he snored softly in the corner.

 

When next he woke, it was to Balin’s smile.

Despite still feeling weak, he threw his arms around the aged Dwarf. Over his shoulder, a gaggle of Dwarves was standing guard outside the tent. Bilbo suddenly feared the worst.

“Don’t worry, laddie,” Balin said, as if knowing his mind, “Thorin is out of danger.”

Bilbo felt like he could finally breathe, and Balin’s smile grew even more. The tent suddenly filled up with one Dwarf after another, first Dwalin and Bofur, then Bifur and Bombur, Nori, Ori, and Fili and Kili, all fighting for space next to the bed. The remaining Dwarves, Balin told him, had stayed by Thorin’s side.

There were many injuries, but none too serious, and Bilbo felt revived by the Dwarves’ laughter and incessant talk. So much so, he nearly forgot about the sleeping stranger, who was now sitting straight up and staring at the scene before him in utter bafflement.

Unfortunately, the Dwarves were not as welcoming to the stranger as Bilbo would have hoped. He had forgotten how suspicious Dwarves could be, after being among their ranks for so long. At different points, they all claimed that the stranger had an ill look about him. He looked far too Elf-like to be human, but far too wild to be an Elf. They couldn’t figure him out, and thus could not bring themselves to show him the same kindness Bilbo did.

All except for Bifur, who for some reason, established a kind of bond with the stranger in their mutual silence. Bilbo noticed when the Dwarves had come to sup with him and Gandalf. The stranger had refused to come to the table they had set, and sat apart, watching. Bifur had also refused food, and instead of joining the songs and recounts of the battle, he had gone to sit next to the stranger. They merely exchanged looks, then went on staring at the festivities in companionable peace. It was quite a sight.

Kili seemed rather interested in the Elf guard who had saved Bilbo’s life, but Bilbo had no memory of her and was of little help. He still found it amusing how the young Dwarf looked about distracted, trying to spot her in the surrounding camp. It was less amusing how concerned Fili looked when he caught his brother’s searching eye.

Once he was well enough, Bilbo and the pale stranger ventured into the camp. Most of the injured were well tended, and the corpses had been buried. Still Bilbo wanted to be useful, and the stranger merely followed. In finding odd jobs, fetching things and tending to others, they learned much about what had happened since the battle.

Bard had decided Dale would be a better shelter for the coming winter. Houses could be thatched while Lake Town was rebuilt. It was also his hope that some of the people would choose to stay in Dale, bring the city back to life. That was, of course, as long as the Dwarf King kept his word.

The Elf army also lingered, awaiting Thorin’s recovery and the decisions that would come with it.

The Dwarf army was to be split in two, one half returning to the Iron Hills with Dain and the other half staying with Thorin and the company to help in the renewal of Erebor. For the time being, it seemed that Dain was set on staying until Thorin was well enough to take control.

The Elves aided the people, lived and dined with them. The Dwarves, for the most part, stayed in their own camp, which had been set up outside of the ruined gates of Erebor. It seemed that only members of the company would bridge the divide, but only to visit Bilbo and Gandalf.

As if the combination of Middle Earth races sharing dwellings wasn’t strange enough, there were also Radagast the Brown and Beorn the skin changer. Radagast had helped much in the healing, though once the more severe patients had healed, he tended to the animals. That is, the Dwarf army’s goats and cattle. Gandalf had said he was more comfortable among animals. Beorn on the other hand was helping the men with preparing housing in the ruins of Dale. His vast strength allowed him to move boulders and debris, while the men worked on roofs and makeshift coverings.

Radagast was shy and tended to avoid Bilbo and the stranger; he also felt uneasy around him. Beorn was friendlier and often broke fast or lunched with the two. Bilbo enjoyed his company; he was a man who valued good food, and he was kind to the stranger. However he could have done without Beorn’s nickname for him: really, for a full grown Hobbit to be called little bunny was just . . . oh, the indignity!

So the days that followed were spent in a strange limbo of sorts, everyone waiting on Thorin’s word. All three races and all the strange characters frozen in time, unable to go home, unable to move on. Bilbo wished he could have the courage to see Thorin himself, talk sense to him. Not that he would listen, but just to try! He could put on his ring, he thought, sneak into the Dwarf camp, find Thorin— Then the memory of their last meeting would come to mind. No, Thorin would not listen.

Somewhere in these days, Bilbo finally met with his rescuer. He awoke one morning to find the stranger gone. Bilbo felt completely thrown off, he’d gotten so used to having him around. It was almost off-putting being on his own. Unable to quell his anxiety, he scoured the camp for him.

He finally spotted him among the Elf guards, standing before a stunning woman with flaming red hair. He towered over her as well, but the way she carried herself, she looked like his equal. Bilbo did recognize her. It was Kili’s guard from the dungeons.

She was different though. The guard he had observed in the dungeons, playfully flirting with a Dwarf, passionately talking about stars and history, was not the woman he saw facing the pale stranger.

This one seemed older, weary and grim, as if a light had faded. Bilbo wondered if it was war that could bring about such a change. Then he couldn’t help but wonder if it was the opposite instead. After all, Kili did not leave those dungeons the same Dwarf that had gone in.

“Ah, here is my savior at last,” Bilbo said, walking up to the two. The Elf turned and smiled.

“Master Baggins,” she said, “it does my heart good to see you well.”

“Bilbo, please,” he said and took her hands. “I wish I had met you sooner. I don’t know how to thank you!”

“It was an honor.”

“You saved my life, both of you,” he said looking to the pale stranger, whose gaze had softened in the last few days, “I shall not forget it. How could I ever repay you?”

She bent low, and light seemed to return to her eyes.

“You must live, that’s how. We all must live.”

There was suddenly a great deal of stirring. Tauriel straightened up and listened to the passing guards. She turned to Bilbo.

“Thranduil king has been summoned. The Dragon Slayer too. They are to meet with the King under the Mountain this evening.”


	8. The Word of a Mountain King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin has awakened. How will this affect the fate of Dwarves, Elves, Men and one Hobbit?

Chapter 8; The Word of a Mountain King

 

Their roles had switched.

As the night wore on, Bilbo became more anxious. The meeting between the Kings and leaders and whatever else was still going on. He paced back and forth inside the tent, at an almost manic pace, while the stranger sat quietly and followed the scuttling figure with his eyes. On Bilbo’s umpteenth-thousand turn, a long arm shot out and caught the back of his coat. He turned surprised to meet with the stranger’s face, which clearly seemed to read “Knock it off or you’ll drill a hole in the ground!” Bilbo laughed nervously, and joined the stranger at the small table.

He had become more expressive over the last week or so, and in a way bolder. He no longer settled for following Bilbo around like a hapless pup. There were days for instance, when while Bilbo decided to help out with the children, the stranger chose to join Beorn in some hard labor. Or if Bilbo wanted to rest and smoke a pipe with Gandalf, Radagast and Balin, the stranger would wander off to sit by himself. These instances of separation were few, but they had become steadily recurring.

There were also times when the stranger made it known when he wanted something. He’d become bolder in demanding things for himself, and extended his protective nature to others aside from Bilbo and Hilda. He had once caught Bilbo fumbling with the ring in his pocket, and—a bit too rough—latched onto his hand and refused to let go for some time. It was quite embarrassing when Gandalf decided to walk in. Bilbo didn’t hear the end of that one for a while.

Still, the stranger’s presence had helped Bilbo in these long days, and he dreaded the day when he would have to part with his friend. He wondered what would happen to him, if he would ever recover his memory. And if once he remembered his life as the fanciful merchant from Gondor—which seemed to be the stronger theory— he would still think of his Hobbit friend.

But who could tell what lay ahead? The road was long.

The entrance to the tent stirred, and Gandalf and Balin entered. Bilbo shot up instantly.

“Well?”

“It’s all settled, at last,” Gandalf said, though there was no joy in his voice. Bilbo’s heart sank.

“The fourteenth part of the treasure will be paid to the people of Lake Town,” Balin said, taking a seat opposite to Bilbo and signaling him to sit down. “The amount estimated will be more than enough to rebuild Esgaroth and Dale together. They also agreed upon future trades, beneficial to both our people.”

At this he glanced at the stranger, and sat uneasily. Bilbo tried to ignore it.

“The white gems of Lasgalen were returned to King Thranduil, and there were talks of future compensation for use of the Mirkwood Elven paths. This is a historic day for Elves and Dwarves. A feud that has long poisoned our relations is ended. Although,” he rolled his eyes, “neither King looked particularly happy about it.”

Bilbo breathed a long sigh of relief. Everything seemed to be right. So why were both Gandalf and Balin avoiding his gaze?

“What is it?” he finally asked. Balin shifted uncomfortably, while Gandalf looked out of the tent.

“Bilbo,” Balin started, resting a hand on his, “the Arkenstone has been returned, and the matter put to rest. But there was one more thing Thorin had to say about it. He has decreed—” a moment of hesitation, with a heavy shake of his head, “you are to be banished from Erebor.”

Bilbo nodded. He could feel the stranger’s piercing eyes on him, which he somewhat preferred to Balin and Gandalf’s avoidance.

“I tried to dissuade him, and the others spoke in favor of you. Even Thranduil protested! But he would hear no more of it. Threatened to call off the whole meeting if anyone insisted—”

“It’s alright, Balin,” Bilbo spoke softly, squeezing the old Dwarf’s hand in turn, “I understand.”

“Dale is another matter entirely,” Balin continued, finally looking at Bilbo, “you can stay here as long as you want, and in the future—”

“I know, I know,” Bilbo said a little too quickly. He was suddenly too aware of the three staring at him, with infuriating looks of pity.

“I know, Balin.”

 

Bilbo sat alone, far away from the camp. He’d found a good patch of land, where it seemed the battle had not reached. The ground was unstirred, the rocks tainted only by time and moss. It was far enough from Dale, that a winter breeze went on with full force. Bilbo cursed himself for not bringing extra covering. He brought his blue coat closer about him, but he still shivered.

He did not just choose this patch for its isolation and distance, but also because the Lonely Mountain was in full view. And what a view it was.

Stunning—breathtaking.

Bilbo thought he almost understood the Dwarves’ drive. Thorin’s drive. He was wondering if this little patch of land he’d chosen was technically still belonging to Dale or if he was already in direct violation of his banishment. What was one inch or two? How could you measure domain?

Such questions were quickly interrupted as a rather large and heavy quilt was dropped on top of him. Bilbo let out a most indignant squeak, emerging from under the stiff fabric.

The stranger stood over him, looking baffled at the ingratitude towards his gesture. Bilbo smiled halfheartedly, then wrangled the heavy thing onto his shoulders.

“Thank you, my friend,” he said, “I’m sorry but, if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to be alone for a moment.”

In answer, the stranger plopped down next to him. Bilbo really should have expected no less.

The mountain loomed at a distance. Fires burned softly within, and sometimes Bilbo believed he could hear singing, faint yet deep.

“I never expected to stay or anything. A Mountain is no place for a Hobbit. No gardens, no sunlight. Still, I think—” Bilbo struggled with his words, “I should like to have seen it restored. Perhaps that’s it. After all the stories they told me, hearing all about the Mountain in its glory days . . . I greatly desired to see it under Thorin’s reign.”

The stranger looked at the mountain with disinterest, and even his lip seemed to curl with something akin to disdain. In truth, he could not understand everyone’s attachment to it. It was just a tall accumulation of rock in the middle of vast lands. He could not even imagine what was inside that so many longed for.

“I haven’t told you about my home, have I?” Bilbo went on. The stranger turned to look at him. “It’s beautiful. The surrounding woods with paths just waiting to be explored. Green fields, covered in flowers and crops. So many colors. And the streams, singing with clear cool water.”

Tears suddenly rolled down his face. Bilbo touched them, he had not noticed he’d been crying.

“From the moment I met them, I wanted the Dwarves to have that. It seemed like that was all they desired. Their home back . . . to love something as much as I love the Shire. And now here they are.”

He rubbed at the tears with the back of his hand.

“I should be happy then. I am happy. So very—” Words ran out.

And Bilbo settled into silence, his eyes fixed on the Mountain he would never see again. Despite the quilt, he still shivered. The stranger shifted, settling himself behind Bilbo, his head resting upon the Hobbit’s, his arms an extra quilt offering warmth. It was a rather intimate gesture, which normally Bilbo would have rejected. He did stiffen at first, unused to such proximity. But that night in particular, he found himself welcoming it.


	9. The Leave Taking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With heavy hearts, the time has come to leave the Lonely Mountain behind. What will this mean for the stranger?

Chapter 9: The Leave Taking

 

The next morning, the stranger was far more attentive. He’d gone back to his original dependence on Bilbo and followed him closely. A little too close!

Bilbo thought he could shake him if he once again volunteered to help with the children, something he knew the stranger would hate. This failed, and the stranger suffered endless torment; the children used him as a tree to climb. He simply endured it, standing stiff as a board and letting one giggling child after another pinch and pull at him. Bilbo could not stop laughing at the sight, but was unfortunately called away by Gandalf. The stranger was in no position to follow.

“Ah, Bilbo, my dear fellow,” Gandalf said when Bilbo entered the tent, “there you are. We have important business to discuss, since our own business here is rather done. Wouldn’t you say?”

Bilbo agreed sadly, “I suppose.”

“What do you think about leaving soon?”

“It is time, yes.”

“Indeed. The Elves will be moving on shortly as well. I have spoken to Radagast and Beorn. They will come with us, help us cross the wilderland. And of course, we have King Thranduil’s permission to use the Elven path. No spiders, I’ve been assured,” he added at Bilbo’s concerned look. “They would be ready to leave within two days. Beorn promised the Dwarves some heavy lifting in Erebor first. Now, there is one more matter here, and that is the subject of your bodyguard.”

“Yes,” Bilbo said relieved. He wasn’t sure how he was going to bring this up to Gandalf. “I have been worried about that. I don’t know how he’ll take the news that we’re leaving.”

“Hmm,” Gandalf opened the flap of the tent, looking out to the tall figure covered in Lake Town children. “I have spoken to Hilda. Remarkable woman. She says she’ll look after him, though I think she’s got her hands full, what with the hospital and the six or seven orphans she’s taking in. I doubt the people of Lake Town would forsake him, though every family is in rather the same boat.”

Bilbo nodded. The stranger still needed looking after, and there was no mistake. It was an endless chore to get him to eat, drink and sleep.

“I am not skilled in his particular kind of injury, but if there is anyone in Middle Earth who can help him recover his mind, it would be Lord Elrond.” Bilbo looked up, hopeful. “What do you think?”

“Yes! Of course!” Bilbo cried out, relieved at the solution. “As long as you think Lord Elrond wouldn’t mind.”

“The Last Homely House was built to be a haven for those who are lost, and I believe our friend more than qualifies.”

Bilbo jumped to his feet. “This is splendid news! Of course, if he agrees to as well.”

“I doubt he’ll feel he has much of a choice,” Gandalf smiled. “He’d follow you into a dragon’s den.”

“It would never come to that—again . . . ever!” Bilbo added, laughing, “I’ll go tell him now!”

“I’ve also come up with a name for him,” Gandalf said, stopping Bilbo at the entrance of the tent. “Well, we can’t very well keep calling him “you” or “poor wretch.” Nauro. It is Elvish, it means “of fire.” The people of Lake Town tell me he seemed to have come from the very flames, and that is where his new life began.”

“Nauro . . . I hope he likes it!” and Bilbo ran out of the tent.

“And why shouldn’t he? It’s a perfectly good name!” Gandalf called after him sternly.

 

_Nauro?!_

His lip curled at the name, and the grimace deepened after the Hobbit’s eager explanation. An Elvish name of all things—

“Well, it will have to do for now,” Bilbo said, smiling. “If you hate it so much, then you’ll have to tell us what you want to be called.”

He sighed in defeat.

“Now,” the Hobbit went on, “I’m not going to tell you what to do, and if you choose to stay here, I won’t dissuade you. I will say that if anyone could help you, Lord Elrond can! He can give you your memories back! You can recover your life.”

Yes, the life. The life he’d lost, and everyone else mourned for him. How could you mourn something you don’t even know?

He had never considered leaving. He never considered the idea of “tomorrow”, or the day after “tomorrow.” Truth be told, he never even considered another place outside of where he was. Bilbo often told him about his home, but he didn’t grasp the idea that it was real. That it could be touched, or seen. The people of Lake Town were all he knew. The ruins of Dale the only place he knew. The thought of being without one or the other was . . . difficult.

“I will understand if you wish to stay here, and I would part from you in friendship, though with a very heavy heart.”

He looked up at this. The Hobbit would leave? Without even thinking, he caught hold of the Hobbit’s hand and shook his head.

“I can’t stay here,” Bilbo said, startled by the sudden movement. “I don’t belong here. It’s time I went home.”

He shook his head again. He could not be anywhere that wasn’t here, but he did not want to be without the Hobbit either. That alone just—couldn’t be. Why couldn’t Bilbo see that? Why did this have to change? The hand gripping the Halfling was eased off, but Bilbo still held it in a comforting manner.

“You don’t have to decide now, there are still two days—”

“Yes.”

It came out as something of a hiss, and even the stranger seemed shocked at the sound. The first word he tried to mimic, to produce. He looked up to meet with Bilbo’s equally shocked face.

“I heard that! Say it again! Go on! You can do it!”

“Yyyesss,” he tried again, and couldn’t help but smile at the successful sound.

“Yes? Yes what? Yes you’ll stay?” the little Hobbit had become very excitable and he gripped both his shoulders.

He shook his head in response.

“Yes you’ll come! YES!” Bilbo threw his arms around his neck, repeating the one word with glee. Then he remembered himself and regained his composure. Pulling away from the stranger, he straightened his coat, cleared his throat and said; “Good. Very good. Keep practicing. I’ll let Gandalf know at once . . . _Nauro_.”

Another sound escaped his throat at that name, but this was more of a deep growl.

 

As soon as word reached Erebor of their imminent departure, twelve Dwarves suddenly materialized in the camp, with plenty of food and drink. It was quite a feast, which started out as a private gathering with the original company and their allies, meaning Gandalf, Radagast, Beorn, Bilbo and the newly named Nauro. But the energy of the Dwarves was so infectious that the people of Lake Town couldn’t help but be drawn to it.

The Elves kept their distance, but the people brought their own food, drink and musical instruments, and the ruined town breathed new life with roaring fires, singing, dancing and much needed merry making.

The morning after took some recovery, but there was still quite a gathering ready to bid the travelers farewell. Thranduil had three horses prepared for them, all fit with fine saddles and plenty of provisions.

Bilbo caught his Dwarf friends adding an extra bag to his horse.

“We’ve all pitched in,” Balin explained, patting the satchel so Bilbo could hear the jingling of coins and such. “It’s not even close to what was originally promised to you—”

“It’s more than enough!” Bilbo said, touched by the gesture. “I do have one more thing to ask of you. Would you please tell Thorin I—” Balin smiled at him sadly. “Tell him I wish him many years of good health and joy.”

“I will, laddie. I promise.”

 

Many offerings had been made to Radagast and Beorn for their aid. Thranduil himself and members of his court were there to pay their respects to Gandalf. Bilbo was disappointed that Tauriel was not among them, and he could tell Kili was as well.

Of the people of Lake Town, Bard, his children, and Hilda had come, with gifts for Nauro. Hilda embraced him tightly, and there were tears in her eyes.

“You keep warm now,” she had told him, fussing over his tattered coat, “and once you’re done with Elves and wizards and all, you come back. You hear me?”

Nauro tried out his new word again, and was rewarded with another hug.

Bilbo was passed around like a rag doll, finding himself in the back-breaking embrace of one burly Dwarf to another. Even Dwalin had clapped him—very hard—on the back, as he would a friend.

Many tears were shed among them, and even Bilbo did not escape with dry eyes.

“If any of you are ever passing Bag End,” Bilbo said with a tight throat, “tea is at four. There’s plenty of it. You are welcome any time. Uh—don’t bother knocking.”

The Dwarves laughed, and bowed low to their friend. With one last look at the mountain, Bilbo joined his fellow travelers. Thus ending his long adventure, at least in his mind.

 

Leaving took some time, since Bilbo was not accustomed to a full sized horse and Nauro had fervently refused to ride at all. A compromise was reached, where he rode on the same horse as Bilbo, holding onto him for dear life. The poor horse had to deal with two very nervous riders, but as a war horse trained by Elves, she was very patient and trotted softly.

The third horse was sent back to its masters. Gandalf had been given a beautiful white horse, while Radagast rode on his Rabbit sled and Beorn walked. His legs were long enough that keeping pace with the horses was easy.

They had scarcely started out when a rider and horse caught up with them.

“Mithrandir! Mithrandir!”

“Ah, Legolas!” Gandalf said and pulled his company to a halt. Or tried to, Beorn had to catch Bilbo and Nauro’s horse.

Bilbo had only seen the Elf prince from a distance, often among his father’s court, or in Tauriel’s company. They had never spoken, but he believed him to be an honorable soul, since he did not speak harshly to his people, and showed kindness to the Lake Town survivors.

“Legolas Greenleaf, how may we help you?”

“By letting me ride with you, and your company, to Rivendell.”

“You are most welcome,” Gandalf said estranged, “though I would have thought you’d be needed here.”

“There’s someone in Lord Elrond’s house I need to find,” and that was all the Elf prince would say.

So the strange company went on, deeper and deeper into the wilderlands. Bilbo often looked behind him, and did not stop until the Mountain was lost amidst the cover of trees. Only then did he allow himself to say, with his hand over his heart . . .

“Farewell, my friends! Farewell, Thorin, King under the Mountain! May your memory never fade!”


	10. The King of Carven Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three years have passed, and Fili's been asked to keep a secret.

Chapter 10: The King of Carven Stone

 

The Halls of Erebor truly were majestic. Over the passage of three years, the finest architects and craftsmen had worked ceaselessly to restore it to its former glory. Those with memory of the days of King Thror would argue that the halls were even greater now.

Soon the mines were filled with workers, and within the first year jewels, precious gems and stones, and even weapons and toys, were being produced.

Thorin Oakenshield had been true to his word and ruled with a firm but fair hand. He’d maintained good relations with the people of Dale, a city that was now thriving. And though contact was limited, there was peace with the Elves of Mirkwood. The members of his small company held positions of high regard in his court, or in the mines. And his sole heir, Fili son of Vili, was being groomed to become the next King Under the Mountain. Though not for a very long time, everyone felt the need to add.

There was peace and plenty. Which is why no one was concerned when it was announced the king would travel to the Blue Mountains to visit his sister. The journey would be long, but the more faithful members of his guard— Dwalin and Nori among them— would accompany him. Fili, along with the advisors, Balin, Gloin and Dori, would remain in court. Many considered this wise, and good practice for the prince regent.

Fili stood on the ramparts overseeing the departure of the king’s company. The figure clad in the finest cloth, his hood lined with wolf’s fur, was well guarded. The Dwarves of Erebor gathered to bid him good fortune, and marveled at the sight of his stern guards, and his own fine apparel.

With a grim face, Fili left the cold night air. He marched down long empty hallways, dimly lit and beautifully polished. He walked heavily down one passage, where he met with a wall. Then, after making sure he was not followed, he pressed his hand upon one of the stone designs and pushed. A door appeared out of the wall itself, and he walked inside.

It was a secret compartment, one of many hidden in the court. The walls were rough, and the chamber itself scarcely furnished. There was a fireplace, with a small fire sputtering away. A figure sat before it, his eyes keen and intent upon the entrance.

“Is it done?”

“Yes, they’re gone. I still think you should wait until cover of darkness, like Dwalin suggested.”

Thorin rose slowly from his chair. “No one suspected?”

“No,” Fili answered, “that smith was a good match, once we had trimmed his beard. Besides, like Oin said, no one would dare look too closely at a king.”

Thorin nodded, and watched the young prince closely.

“I still don’t understand what could be so important for you to do this,” he suddenly protested.

“Fili—”

“And why you will not take someone with you! If you are discovered—why not Dwalin at least? He could have protected you! I can still go with you, Balin can handle things—”

Thorin placed a heavy hand on Fili’s shoulder, and tightened his grip.

“I need you here.”

Fili heaved a deep sigh and looked away.

It had been too long since he had last seen his nephew smile. The tasks of the court had taken their toll on his youthful face, and the weight of his future in the Mountain seemed to have aged him. Few things made him smile, ever since his brother—

“I know these last years have been hard on you,” Thorin went on. “And you have shown your true quality. For now, our people need you. As do I.”

“Uncle,” Fili said, almost pleadingly, “at least tell me where you’re going.”

Thorin considered his answer carefully. The small fire was burning low, and the dancing embers reminded him of another small fire he once enjoyed, quite some time ago. A fire that offered comfort and the promise of a long journey all at once. A fire found in a small house, under a hill, half a world away.

“To see an old friend,” he said at last.


	11. The Voice in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So what have our heroes been up to these last three years?

Chapter 11: The Voice in the Dark

 

_Well?_

_Hush, Mithrandir. He sleeps, but his senses are still quite keen._

_Tell me, Elrond! Was I right?_

_Yes, it is as you feared._

_How—how is this possible?_

_I don’t know. I have never heard of such magic. It troubles me deeply._

_And? What is to be done with him?_

_The memories are there, but they are dormant. Sealed behind a wall, as it were. But walls can be torn down._

_Are we to judge an innocent creature for crimes he has no memory of?_

_Is he innocent?_

_Yes. You may look shocked at me, but of this I have no doubt. I have seen more good in him than I have in high lords, or in men that claim honor yet show no kindness._

_But should the monster in him awaken—_

_Then the man will defeat it._

_You risk too much._

_And what would you have me do! Forsake him? Kill him? What good can possibly come from that?_

_You are too passionate in this matter, Gandalf. I suggested no such thing. I merely wonder what should happen if the monster remains asleep, and it is the man instead who tears down the wall . . ._

 

Nauro woke.

It had been three years since images of fire and death filled his dreams. For the most part, he no longer remembered his dreams. But every now and again, the conversation he had overheard while in a fevered state would return to him.

Three years ago, shortly after they had arrived at Rivendell, Lord Elrond had agreed to help recover his memories. The treatment, however, made Nauro very ill. A terrible fever had seized him, and he remembered little of that time. He listened to the wizard and the Elf lord discuss his fate, but never admitted to it.

When he recovered, Bilbo had been keeping watch next to his bed, hopeful he would awaken with his memories fully restored. The Hobbit was greatly saddened to find Elrond had failed. Both the Elf lord and wizard had asked Nauro if he remembered anything, though they knew fully well he did not. If they feigned ignorance, then he would do so too.

Despite not having found what they had come so far to find, the travelers were quite at their leisure in Rivendell. They were fed, clothed, and treated like guests of honor. For Nauro, it made a huge difference to be given fine clothes that actually fit him. He accepted every garment given to him, save for boots. Bilbo had influenced him too much, and walking about barefoot in a house where the floors were of fine alabaster and the grass thick and soft was an absolute delight.

The one thing he could not get used to was the beds. He preferred the hard cold ground rather than sinking in mounds of scented cloth. When they had first arrived, he was allowed to share a room with Bilbo. After recovering from the terrible fever, he grew even more dependent of the Halfling, and refused to be parted from him at all. While Bilbo enjoyed the oversized bed given to him, Nauro slept on the floor quite contentedly. Once their stay had been prolonged, Lord Elrond insisted Nauro have his own chamber. Apparently, it was not “appropriate”—a word Nauro quickly grew to hate. A bed was prepared for him without a mattress, only a flat wooden surface with thin sheets strewn about. It sufficed, though admittedly, the first few nights he still stole into Bilbo’s room.

As his nightmares dwindled— mostly thanks to Lord Elrond, he was sure—he could finally sleep on his own. That was years ago, of course, back when he still couldn’t put words together. After that terrible fever, though, he did find he was able to concentrate better, and recovering his speech became easier. On their journey to Rivendell, Bilbo had tried to increase his vocabulary, but retaining words proved difficult.

Perhaps the Elf and Wizard had toyed with his mind a little, tinkered about and decided what they could fix and what they could leave “sealed away.” However much he hated being powerless about his own fate, he was grateful to recover the ability to speak.

He rose from his bed, and walked to the window. There was always a basin filled with clear cool water, and his mornings began by dipping his entire face in the bowl then shaking his head dry. His hair had grown longer, though the Elf maidens tended to cut it short again. They said his unruly curls would be easier to tend to as long as they never grew past his lower neck. He really couldn’t care less.

He remembered how he never really cared for the concept of beauty, but there was something about this place he’d been brought to. Beauty could be found in every sight, music always permeated the air, and though he was not fond of Elf scent, they were a passionate people. And some had proven to be worthy of trust.

_Some . . ._

Yes, though his thoughts were not as scattered, the whispering voice lingered still. It was often when he was enjoying the beauty of Rivendell that the voice called him back from it, making him wonder what this place would look like covered in flames, consumed by ash. What it would be like to watch it all burn, shatter into nothingness.

Any time he admired some creation, the voice spoke of destruction. If he was grateful for a life, the voice brought up death. It was always there, waiting in the dark.

It was easy enough to ignore, but impossible to silence.

 


	12. Home Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life in Rivendell!

Chapter 12: Home Alone

 

Bilbo was in his usual place, perched on an open window overlooking the long bridge that connected Rivendell to the outside world. A large book with a red leather cover was often in his arms, a quill posed over the pages and an ink bottle by his feet.

Bilbo breathed in deeply the fresh mid-morning air, smiling contentedly. The slap of large bare feet drew his attention, and he turned in time to see Nauro climbing up the stairs to his perch.

“Good morning,” he said happily,“'bout time you woke up.”

Nauro grinned at this. “Don’t pretend you don’t enjoy a quiet morning. It’s when you write the most.”

“True,” Bilbo conceded, “but it’s so quiet here these days, with Elrond and his court gone to Lórien and the boys off hunting. Speaking of which, they should be back today.”

“Is that who you’re on the look-out for?” Nauro asked, leaning against the other side of the open window.

“No, actually, I’m waiting on Langon,” Bilbo answered, “I’m eager to see if there is any news from the Lonely Mountain.”

“Or the Shire,” keen grey eyes locked onto Bilbo, who sighed at this.

“I think I liked you better when you weren’t so clever.”

“I was always clever,” Nauro said in a silky voice. “I was just clever enough to hide it.”

Shortly after they had arrived in Rivendell, spring three years ago, Bilbo had written to his second cousin, Drogo, to see if he would help ready his home for his return. He was shocked to get a response detailing how he had been declared dead and his beloved Bag End sold to none other than his nemesis, the Sackville-Bagginses! Bilbo had felt so heartbroken he could not bear to face such a sight. Thus began a long correspondence between himself and young Drogo, who –along with Bilbo’s faithful gardener, Hamfast Gamgee—dedicated much of their time tracking his scattered furniture and belongings. Perhaps that was part of the reason Bilbo continued to prolong his stay in Rivendell. For the first time in his life, he was without a home.

Nauro’s recovery was another reason, of course, as well as the warm welcome they had received. And the place itself held a natural lure that Bilbo could not resist.

“I fear I’ve been away for far too long,” Bilbo finally said. “Perhaps it is time I went home.”

Nauro’s cool composure sagged at this. With the ability to speak, a certain elegance appeared in Nauro’s demeanor. He carried himself with an almost princely air. His movements became more fluid and confident. Along with this, there also came a bit of a trickster side. He was not deceitful, but he was playful and often used his ease with words to tease others. He enjoyed startling some of the younger Elves, who were still uneasy around him, with his stealth and fox-like grin. He enjoyed watching them squirm and ultimately scuttle away with a single well placed word.

But Bilbo could always break past that trickster side. If he ever mentioned going back to the Shire, the elegant princely façade would melt away and for a moment, that childish insecure creature Bilbo had met in Dale reappeared.

This morning was no exception.

“Hey,” Bilbo said, nudging at Nauro’s arm with his foot, “I’m not leaving right this moment! Besides, surely I’ve told you enough about the Shire to make you curious. It might be easier to get my home back if I’m in the company of a giant ghost of a man.”

Bilbo said this, but in his heart he feared Nauro would never come to the Shire. He had thrived in Rivendell; his mind re-awakening, his wit sharpening. How could someone like him be content in the Shire?

“Well, probably best if you didn’t,” Bilbo said quickly, after Nauro’s silence went on for too long. “Surely the quaint and simplistic nature of the Hobbits would drive you mad.”

“Are you sure you’re not talking about yourself?” And there was the trickster smile again.

“How dare you!” Bilbo kicked out at him, though Nauro dodged it playfully. “Go away, I want my quiet time.”

“Read to me,” Nauro said and sat on the floor, his back against the wall on which Bilbo was perched on.

“No, I said go away.”

“Read to me.”

“It’s not ready yet.”

But Nauro did not move, and he looked quite at ease up against the wall, his head leaning close to Bilbo. Sometimes he really did look like a giant cat, Bilbo often thought to himself, when they had moments of peace together. He cleared his throat and read snippets of his poor draft. Nauro wasn’t much of an art critic, and he wasn’t one for poetry either. Bilbo knew it was just the sound and rhythm of his voice that the great big cat enjoyed.

A clear cry rang out from below.

“Bilbo!”

Looking down, he was greeted by the sight of two riders. The younger of the two was waving excitedly, smiling under the morning sun. The other was the Mirkwood prince himself, Legolas Greenleaf, looking perfectly at home amidst trees and fresh leaves.

“Ah, the boys are back!” Bilbo announced happily, setting his book aside.

“You do realize Legolas is a couple hundred years older than you,” Nauro said, getting up lazily.

“I know that. It’s just, pair him up with Estel and he regresses those hundred years, instantly.”

After the battle for the Mountain, the entire journey through the wilderland had been quite eventful, since several orc packs had taken refuge in Mirkwood and one particular platoon hunted their company for miles.

They had a personal vendetta against Legolas, the silent brooding prince of Mirkwood. Between the two wizards, the skin changer and an Elf warrior, no pack lasted long. Even after parting ways with Radagast and Beorn at the edge of the woods, Legolas continued to be grim company. He barely spoke and refused to answer any of Gandalf’s questions about his father or his future in Mirkwood. He only insisted there was someone in Lord Elrond’s house he had to meet.

When they had reached Rivendell, Elrond had a great feast prepared for them. It was there that Bilbo finally met the other members of the hall. He met Elrond’s sons, Elladan and Elrohir, two fine Elf lords, and his daughter, Arwen, a skilled healer and challenging conversationalist. She questioned Bilbo heavily about the Shire, and passionately answered his questions about her people. There was also Glorfindel, of course, who had a marvelous singing voice and an undying loyalty to Lord Elrond and his family.

Then there was Estel.

Lord Elrond had spoken little about the boy’s origin; only that his mother, a human woman from a wealthy family, had come to Rivendell with her infant son. He had been raised there, even after her untimely passing.

Apparently, in the years he had grown up in Rivendell, Lord Elrond’s children were living in Lothlórien, with their grandmother, Lady Galadriel. Upon their return, Estel was quite grown up. And it wasn’t long before—much to the dismay of his foster father—he and lady Arwen became quite . . . amicable.

He was a handsome young man, with very fine features. In a certain light, he could pass as an Elf youth, but as Bilbo knew him better, he thought his face was slightly . . . rougher. His hair was a particular giveaway as to his human parentage. It never settled properly, no matter how much the Elf maidens combed and treated it. Several rebellious locks were always escaping the various broches and bindings. A perfect symbol for his own heart.

Despite being groomed as an Elf lord, Estel was passionate and wild. And the moment Legolas and he met, the brooding prince was renewed. Bilbo wondered if it was Estel who Legolas had come so far to meet. Though he wasn’t sure why the son of a king would want to meet an orphaned youth.

They became fast friends, and were often found in each other’s company. If they weren’t training in sword fighting, archery or hand to hand combat—which always gave Bilbo a heart attack—they would go off for days on end to hunt.

A few weeks past, Lords Elladan and Elrohir declared they wished to return to Lórien, and Elrond thought it a good idea to visit his wife’s family while they were at it. He had insisted Arwen accompany him.

“He thinks my grandmother can talk sense to me, that’s all,” Arwen had confided in Bilbo the night before they left. She had said this with a sad smile, but a knowing smile none the less. “He fears I shall meet the same fate as my ancestor, Lúthien Tinúviel, who gave her heart and ultimately her life to a mortal man. But I believe my fate has long been set.”

Lady Arwen had been the most welcoming of all. It was she who showed Bilbo Lord Elrond’s most prized books, including those translated to Westron. She had also began Bilbo’s lessons in Elvish. Though Nauro was never interested in books or learning songs and poems, she also proved to be a good companion for him. She’d sit with him for hours on end, in peaceful silence.

There were times when a more restless fancy would come over Nauro, and he’d join Legolas and Estel in the woods; but if it meant being away from Rivendell for more than one night, he would grow uneasy and turn back. Despite his improvement, Nauro still had trouble being parted from Bilbo. The only one to show sympathy towards him was Arwen, since Lord Elrond and Nauro were not on the friendliest of terms. For this, she had earned Nauro’s protective nature. Though Bilbo noted the boys—as he insisted on calling Legolas and Estel—had also earned their place on that list.

 


	13. A Bit of Mail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes, there is a working mailing system in Middle Earth. Mostly through birds. Is the Harry Potter Hedwig theme playing in your heads yet?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S ALIIIIIIIIIVE!!!!   
> Mah baby's alive and running . . . for now . . . thank you all for being patient! Hopefully I can go back to the original posting schedule!   
> ps: also teeeney tiny Cabin Pressure reference in this one :P

 

Chapter 13: A Bit of Mail

 

Both Bilbo and Nauro descended from the high window to greet the returning hunters. They found them still in the courtyard, distributing their prizes to different servants, while other guards took their mounts to the stables.

“To my arms, Halfling!” Estel said loudly, holding out his arms.

“DO. NOT. Pick me up!” Bilbo stopped him in his tracks with a stern voice.

“Oh, you’re so boring,” Estel pouted playfully, but he bent down to embrace Bilbo in welcome. Nauro was not fond of physical contact, but he still greeted Legolas with a firm hand shake and hard pats to the shoulder.

“You were gone for a while!” Bilbo said, clasping Legolas hands in greeting.

“Well, when the road calls you,” Estel said, ignoring Nauro’s protesting grunts as he embraced him as well. “No choice but to answer.”

“This one kept getting us lost,” Legolas muttered with a half smile.

“We were not lost, we were exploring. Either way it worked out just fine, and we came across plenty of game. This House has been far too quiet. We shall have a feast tonight!”

“ _Hirnin_ Estel, _hirnin_ Legolas,” a tall Elf, dressed in less finery than the rest of the household, approached the group. On his shoulder was a beautiful hawk, with a majestic array of golden feathers. This was Langon, head of the aviary, who received various birds from all over bearing letters and parcels. A leather bound satchel hung from his shoulders. “And of course, masters Baggins and Nauro,” he added.

“Langon,” Legolas greeted respectfully, “good morning to you—”

“What news!” Estel practically leapt at the messenger’s satchel.

“Here you are, my lord,” the rider held out a letter, which was quickly snatched away. Estel tore the bindings on the paper, glanced quickly at the writing, then dashed out of sight with the world’s most ridiculous smile on his face.

“Arwen?” Bilbo glanced at Legolas.

“Arwen,” the Elf prince nodded, then addressed the messenger. “This House’s host may be severely lacking in manners, but I thank you. There should be a fine feast tonight, with plenty of good wine and music.”

“Now that will be just fine,” the messenger responded, “but since I have you here, my lord, you might as well take this.” Legolas regarded the parcel, sealed with the Elvenking’s mark, as if it were a spider. Still he took it and nodded in gratitude. “Now for you, master Baggins,” Langon went on, “no raven I’m afraid, but I have two letters for you. One poor pigeon from the Shire, who is now well fed and rested, and this fellow here,” he pointed at the beautiful animal perched on his shoulder. A bird Bilbo had come to know well.

Bilbo took the two letters. One from Drogo, which made him sigh in relief. He was aware of Nauro walking away to the gardens, but he was distracted by the second letter, which was sealed with a distinct red twine.

 

Legolas seemed upset at the letter from his father, so Bilbo went off by himself to read his own correspondence. He’d hoped to find Nauro in the gardens, but he was nowhere to be seen. To his surprise, the Elf prince soon joined him, his hands empty.

“What news from the Shire?” he asked.

“My second cousin’s tracked the last few items missing,” Bilbo said, putting the letter away. “He’s just sent me the entire bill. Not a pretty sight, but with the Dwarves’ parting gift it shouldn’t be too difficult to manage. The matter of Bag End, however, won’t be so easy. Might have to provide physical proof that I am in fact, Bilbo Baggins.”

“I never would have thought Hobbits to be such sticklers for bureaucracy,” Legolas laughed.

“You have no idea,” Bilbo grumbled, then glanced tentatively at Legolas. “The other letter is from Tauriel.”

Legolas paused; though there was no visible reaction on his face, Bilbo could tell—along with his father’s letter— this was just more bad news. Tauriel’s letters started arriving in spring, two years past. They were always addressed to Bilbo, and contained excited updates of her new life far from Mirkwood . . . and of her new husband.

“I was hoping she’d write soon. In Fili’s last letter he was rather anxious for news of his brother. Would you like to read it?”

He shook his head. “You read it.”

“Well, now you just sound like Nauro,” Bilbo tried to lighten the mood, then cleared his throat and began.

_My dearest friend,_

_I was very excited to find half of your last letter in Elvish! Lady Arwen must be an excellent teacher. It wasn’t half bad either!_

_After much searching, I am pleased to inform you that, at least for the foreseeable future, we have finally settled down. We came across a run-down cottage. It still needs a lot of repair but it is perfectly placed. Close enough to the very edge of the Wilderland to keep us in trouble (orc packs still roam about, I mean we don’t want to get too bored out here) but far enough to be safe from prying eyes._

_Enclosed you will find a second letter in Kili’s handwriting. Don’t bother trying to make it out, that ludicrous gibberish is Khuzdul. He was most insistent on sending his brother a letter this time around, and since we’re still wary of sending my hawk to Erebor, you’re our best chance. He is very grateful for your help in keeping touch with Fili. He does miss him so._

_But my dutiful husband is hard at work even as I write this. I made the terrible mistake of teasing him for his height, and now he insists on handling all the repairs on the cottage himself. Though this might also be because I am, as they say, in a delicate condition._

_I am cautious of what this means for us, but I cannot help but bask in such happiness as I’ve never known before. Please send my regard to everyone in Lord Elrond’s House. I never lose hope that one day I’ll be able to see such a beautiful place. And please commend me to Legolas, he is often in my thoughts._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Tauriel_

 

Bilbo instantly regretted offering the letter. Though he knew such news would not fall well with the Elf prince, he could not help but share in his distant friend’s joy. And in her caution as well.

“Delicate condition,” Legolas repeated, his gaze looking far off into the gardens. “She is with child then.”

“Has that—” Bilbo started but didn’t quite know how to ask, “have you ever heard of—this sort of—”

“No,” Legolas said. “then again, Tauriel was never one for the traditional.”

Bilbo stood, clasping his letters tightly. “I am sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“Don’t trouble yourself, my friend,” Legolas said, sitting down next to Bilbo and continuing to let his gaze roam the vast gardens.

“I am happy for her.”

 

 

Nauro was flat on his back, grass and fresh earth all around him. His eyes were shut, but his brow betrayed troubling thoughts behind those lids. He basked in the stillness that surrounded him. The gentle cool breeze caressing the higher leaves, grazing over the glass blades. He could shut out the loud noises, shut out the pounding world . . . not at this very moment though.

“I know you’re there.”

“I was quiet that time!” Estel exclaimed, leaping out from his hiding place in the brush. “How is it possible that I can sneak up on any beast in the known world, but I can never sneak past you?”

“Well, for one, you have the tendency of stepping on every single dry twig in your path,” Nauro answered, sitting up, “but in this case . . . you stink.”

“The baths aren’t ready yet. Besides, you try living in the wild a few days, see how you smell after.” Estel swung his long lanky legs over a bench of fine stone. This part of the gardens had long been left unattended, and the bench he sat upon was evidence of it. Long vines and piles of faded leaves overran the smooth stonework.

“And how is your lady love?” Nauro said after glancing at the letter still held tightly in the youth’s hand.

“That is none of your concern,” he said with feigned indignity, then added under his breath “she’s fine.” With exceeding care, he placed the letter into the inner pocket of his robe, then he returned his attention to the somber man before him. “What about you? What are you pouting about? Did some Elf maiden fail to quiver before you?”

Nauro smiled at the joke, but his gaze remained downcast. “Bilbo’s going back to the Shire.”

“Hah, he’s been saying that for three years,” Estel scoffed. “He never really means it.”

He shook his head slowly. “It’s different this time.”

Estel waved his hand dismissively and stretched out over the bench, his hands behind his head. “I’ll dig up some ancient volume of the adventures of Gil Galad or Elbereth, it’ll drive the thought right out of his head, you’ll see.”

Nauro continued to smile, and let his hand absentmindedly draw circles and shapes on the one patch of drying earth. It was rather soothing, feeling the cool dirt shift between his fingers.

“You don’t think he’d really leave, do you?” Estel pulled him out of his thoughts. Nauro looked up to see a face that betrayed something akin to vulnerability.

There were times when just by looking at the youth, Nauro suddenly felt very old. Though he did not remember his age, or the years leading to his life now, he couldn’t stop the word that came to him repeatedly when he looked on Estel.

_Child._

He thought he could feel the years he had lived but would never remember when he saw the youth. And they were heavy. So heavy.

Though Estel talked like a seasoned traveler, and pretended to be just as experienced, the sheltered boy raised in comfort would often rear his naïve head. After all, he had been raised in a place of beauty and peace that seemed to be suspended from the rest of the world, forgiven by time. He was not entirely fond of change.

“I mean, what has he got to go back to? His own family just sold all his possessions, he’s lost his beloved Bag End. Why would he want to leave?”

“He says it’s his home,” Nauro shrugged and went back to creating shapes on the smooth earth.

“Well, I don’t know how anyone could ever want to live anywhere else,” Estel said, taking back the seasoned traveler voice, and directing his gaze skyward.

“So sayeth the smelly ranger.”

“A few days in the wild is necessary, true, but this . . .” Estel said dreamily, enjoying the leaves dancing overhead, “I could never leave this place.”

“But you will.”

The voice startled him. It was deep and distant. It sounded like Nauro, but all at once it was foreign and eerie. Estel looked back to his friend to find him staring transfixed at the ground before him, his eyes following the pale hand that seemed to be moving of its own volition; smooth, determined strokes upon the sand. Nauro’s gaze was lost. He looked like he was in a trance, his mind in another realm. Estel thought he recognized the same glazed look in Arwen when she was haunted by ominous dreams with foreboding messages.

“You will leave, deep into the wild . . .” Nauro’s deep voice went on, “not for a day, but rather days that will stretch into years. The wild will deepen, and you will follow. Wandering, but not lost.”

It was then that Estel looked closely at the patterns on the ground. He sat up slowly, as if afraid to awaken a sleepwalker.

“And then a fire . . . the fire will rage. From the void. There is no life in the void. The fire will rage. You will have to rage back. Rage on and on and on . . .”

“Nauro . . .” Estel spoke softly but firm, “what are you drawing?”

This seemed to snap him out of it. Nauro blinked, and the otherworldly light left his eyes, returning to their usual stormy grey. For a moment, he looked as if he didn’t remember what he said. Then he looked lost, and looked down at his hand in the cool earth.

“I don’t know,” he whispered.

What he had drawn was difficult to discern. It looked something like a tower, rising out of flat land, with two great spikes on either side. And on the very top of it all there was a sun, or something that looked like the sun. Thick wavy lines emanating from it, like sunlight or rather like fire. Another slit ran down the middle of the sun, making it look more like . . .

“ _Hirnin_ Estel!” Lindir’s call was far away, but it still managed to startle the two.

The clearing they were in had changed. There was bright sunlight making its way past trees, but now there seemed to be a hazy darkness trying to snuff out the few beams that had made it past the overhanging leaves. The fresh scent of grass and cool earth had become stifling, closing in.

“Well!” Estel clapped his hands together, trying to sound cheerful. “Better wash off the forest. Come on, stop pouting and make yourself useful. I’m sure there is one Elfling or two you haven’t terrified.”

He helped the shaken man to his feet, then steered them both back to the Hall.

As he passed, Estel purposely swiped his foot over the offending image.

 


	14. The Unexpected Guest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rather unexpected (and brooding) guest just arrived in Rivendell.

 

Chapter 14: The Unexpected Guest

 

The Hall of Fire in Lord Elrond’s home was always filled with laughter, songs and passionate voices. It was a long chamber with a tall ceiling, white pillars of fine stone with intricate carvings, reminiscent of vines. As evening fell, there were Elf musicians, harmonizing and improvising various trues on the coming of autumn. Delicate strings that sounded like the falling and crackling of leaves, and haunting wind instruments to mimic the cold biting air. Other Elven figures gathered in different parts of the great Hall, speaking of things long past. In a secluded corner, a small group sat in silence.

They usually commandeered the large fire place and brought chairs or armchairs close enough to bask in its warmth. Legolas sat farthest from the fire, poring over maps, old and new, comparing the shifting land and changing regions. Estel sat next to him, snoring softly, a book left open on his lap. Then there was Bilbo, writing fiercely in his red book, looking even smaller in the normal-sized armchair. Nauro, still in his big cat mannerism, sat on the floor, closest to the fire.

Normally, he would join the others in looking over maps or some of the beautiful Elven art books. This evening, he was too troubled to concentrate.

What had happened earlier that day worried him.

_That was not me._

The voice that spoke to Estel, as if pronouncing some kind of doom, was not his own. It was the voice in the dark, the one that whispers of death. But it had always stayed in his mind, hidden deep. This day, it took control. It stole his voice, it took hold of his arm and made him draw those figures in the ground.

A flaming sun atop a spiked tower in a barren wasteland.

The voice had seized his body and mind, and used him like a pitiful puppet. Wasn’t it enough that the wizard and Elf Lord held sway over his memories? Now he was to be at the mercy of this . . . thing inside of him? He hated losing control. His mind was his own! His body his own!

_But should the monster in him awaken—_

_Then the man will defeat it._

He passed his hand over his eyes, trying to shut out the voices of Gandalf and Elrond. But what if they were right? Fear gripped his very heart, and he found himself pressing an anxious hand over his heart, over the spider-web scar. The web pulsed and beat against his hand.

What if the voice took hold again? What would it do? Would it carry out these promises of fire and death?

And where would he—Nauro— be?

Should this thing awake again, would he be able to stop it? What if it went after . . .

This last thought made him raise his head, looking for Bilbo. The Hobbit was already looking at him. In their long journey back to Rivendell, Nauro remained silent, but somehow he and Bilbo had mastered these silent conversations. The wizard once commented they could “read” each other, and for the time, Nauro preferred it to trying to find words.

 _You alright?_ He might as well had heard the Hobbit say it out loud, so clear was the concern in his face.

 _It’s nothing,_ Nauro shook his head and tried to smile.

Bilbo’s concern could soothe him, but in this light, with the innocent fire’s flames dancing over his face, it reminded him too much of his fears. Nauro bowed his head, shutting his eyes tight.

“My lords,” Lindir startled him out of his daze, and the peace by the fire was ended. “Forgive me, my lords, but I have received word that a rider approaches.”

Estel had been startled awake, and he was still slapping the drowsiness off his face when he followed Legolas to the veranda. The other two couldn’t resist following.

“Bilbo! We need your Hobbit eyes!” Estel called, while Bilbo and Nauro were still catching up to them. Though it was evening, there was still just enough light from the waning sun to see the winding road leading to the Rivendell bridge.

“Surely Elf eyes are far better,” Bilbo remarked.

“They are,” Legolas answered, “I just can’t quite believe them.”

Bilbo lifted himself on his toes, holding tight onto the railing and squinted at the dark figure approaching. It was also difficult to believe what he saw.

“It’s a Dwarf,” he said, surprised. Nauro visibly stiffened at this.

“What would a Dwarf be doing in these parts?” Estel asked.

“I know not, my lord,” Lindir spoke, making them all turn, “nevertheless, he is headed here.” The steward stared at Estel with unyielding expectation, but the youth just stared back blankly.

“And? What do you want me to do about it?”

“Master Estel, as Lord Elrond’s ward, you are the lord of the manor while he is not here. It is your task to act as host to any visitor.”

Estel only blinked in response.

“Have the servants prepare the guest room in the west wing,” Legolas answered in his stead. “It’s small enough, and Dwarves are not too keen on wide spaces. Have a bath drawn as well, just in case.”

Lindir still looked to Estel for confirmation.

“Yeah, that sounds good.”

The steward bowed, then left to carry out his tasks. Bilbo couldn’t help but suppress a laugh, turning back out the veranda to hide his smile. The rider was still at a distance, but close enough for Bilbo to catch a quick glimpse of his face from under a thick hood.

He’d know that scowl anywhere.

“I—” he mumbled, then cleared his throat, “I think it’s—Thorin?!”

The others turned instantly.

“You’re joking,” Estel said, running back to the veranda.

“He’s right,” Legolas leaned forward, just as surprised.

Bilbo gulped audibly. He had not expected to meet Thorin Oakenshield again, much less in this corner of the world. Nauro stayed where he was, silent and brooding.

If he were a cat, the hair along his back would be standing on end.

 

 

Lanterns had been lit, and by the time Thorin Oakenshield had left his pony with the stable hands and ascended the high steps to the last Homely House. The welcome party waiting for him at the entrance was . . . unusual. At the forefront, there was the Mirkwood prince, tall and fair, standing next to another Elf youth, darker and a little shorter. Close behind, there was an inordinately tall man, pale and strange looking. Next to him, looking even smaller than usual, was the Halfling.

Thorin, despite being stiff and tired from a full day’s ride—and many more before then—stood proud and strong.

For a moment that went on far too long, no one said anything. Legolas shoved Estel, who in a display of utter maturity, shoved him back. At the third shove, he finally got the message. Straightening up, he stepped forward and bowed low before Thorin. The others followed suit.

“Hail, Thorin!” Estel said in his most diplomatic voice, “King under the Mountain, son of Thráin, son of . . .” Thorin’s scowl deepened as the youth’s face went blank and his eyes widened.

“Thror,” Bilbo whispered.

“Thor!” Estel said a little too enthused. He went on despite the audible face palm on Bilbo’s behalf. “Son of Thor! I am Estel, Lord Elrond’s ward. I am sorry that Lord Elrond is not here to welcome you himself, but please accept my humble—welcomeness—in his place.”

The Dwarf king did not bow back. Instead he seemed to be studying the awkward youth in front of him.

Definitely not an Elf.

“Well…” Estel shifted uncomfortably, “you know Legolas Greenleaf, of the woodland realm, and—”

Thorin walked away, leaving Estel’s words hanging. He walked heavily to Bilbo and stood before him, an expectant look on his proud face. Bilbo did not bow again. Though he was nervous, he could not stop the fond smile that spread across his face.

“It’s good to see you, Thorin.”

The Dwarf king tilted his head, but his keen eyes never left Bilbo’s. “Master Baggins.”

The one time those piercing eyes moved away from Bilbo was to examine the tall stranger standing behind him. The proud expression seemed to falter, and instead the scowl deepened with curiosity and mistrust.

“This is Nauro,” Bilbo turned, holding out his hand, “he was one of the survivors of Lake Town.”

“Ah, yes,” Thorin said slowly, eyeing the stranger up and down, “Balin mentioned you’d picked up a stray.”

Nauro’s eyes flashed but he betrayed no emotion in his face. Estel shifted angrily, but was stopped by one sharp look from Legolas. Bilbo took a step forward and was about to say something, but the Elf prince stepped in.

“My lord, are we to expect the rest of your company?”

“I came alone,” Thorin answered, moving away from Bilbo and Nauro.

“You came alone?! From Erebor?” Estel blurted out, in a very non-diplomatic fashion.

“Lindir can show you to your rooms,” Legolas went on. “There is also a bath ready if you wish. There is still time before the evening bell, for dinner, so you may be at your leisure till then.”

The Dwarf king nodded stiffly, and with a final glance at Bilbo, he made his way into the Hall, Lindir following after him.

“Well, isn’t he a treat,” Estel mumbled.

“It’s a good thing we went hunting,” Legolas said, raising an eyebrow. “His mood wouldn’t have improved much with no meat on the table.”

“Pay him no mind, Nauro,” Bilbo said, turning to his friend. “Thorin isn’t the best with first impressions. The first time we met he called me a grocer!”

Nauro huffed in annoyance, then turned to look at the retrieving figure in the Hall. The voice slithered around in his mind, coiling about in the darkness. A deep growl rumbled in the recesses of his mind, and a word reverberated loud and clear.

_Intruder._

 

 

Dinner that night was . . . tense.

The long table was laden with good food and fine wine. Other Elf lords and ladies ate and were merry, while the musicians played and sang, their fair voices rising into the night. The far end of the table, however, was silent.

Estel had taken the head of the table, where Lord Elrond usually sat (after Lindir insisted), while Legolas sat to his right, next to Thorin. Bilbo and Nauro sat opposite to them. Estel tried to start a conversation, but the Dwarf king muttered short answers and went on eating and drinking. Despite being seated directly in front of Bilbo, he avoided his gaze. Nauro however, didn’t take his storm grey eyes off Thorin the whole night.

“I need to ask,” Estel suddenly said, “why did you come all this way without an escort? Or at least a bodyguard?”

“The courtesy of this house has greatly lessened,” Thorin said, taking his wine glass in hand, “if a guest is to be interrogated at the table. I would have thought Lord Elrond would teach better manners than that.”

Estel looked like he was ready to leap over the table, but Legolas stopped him. “I recently received word from my father,” he said calmly, “trade with the Lonely Mountain has been beneficial to both our people.”

“It has been easier with the Elven path open to us,” Thorin said setting his glass down, still without meeting anyone’s eyes. “For once, King Thranduil has been capable of keeping his word . . . for a man with no honor.”

Estel smirked at the look of restraint on Legolas’ face.

“Well, that’s two down on the insult front,” he said, forsaking all diplomatic pretense and sitting leisurely in Lord Elrond’s seat. “Nauro, care to be next? Oh, no, wait, you were the very first. Bilbo, that leaves you.”

“Estel! I’m sure his highness is just tired from his long journey.” Bilbo said firmly, then turned to Thorin. “What news of the Lonely Mountain? I am eager to hear how the company fares.”

At this, Thorin paused. He slowly lifted his downward gaze and looked right at Bilbo, who had forgotten just how intense that stare could get.

“You don’t need me to learn news of the Mountain,” he said slowly, and Bilbo’s heart leapt to his throat. Estel leaned in closer, as if he were watching a fighting match. Legolas visibly stiffened, and Nauro’s glare became practically apocalyptic.

“I thought it strange that so many in my court were in correspondence with the same merchant from Lake Town,” Thorin continued, letting his gaze wander to his now empty wine cup. “So I made inquiries. I wasn’t terribly surprised to discover that there was no merchant with the name Underhill, and that ravens were being sent out to Rivendell without my knowledge.”

It would have been a tense moment of silence, were it not for Estel snickering, then grunting at a harsh kick from under the table.

“It was your friendship I lost, Thorin,” Bilbo said slowly, “not theirs. And not for as long as I live.”

Thorin scoffed. “Such touching words of loyalty from a liar and a thief,” he said with disdain dripping from every word.

“Whatever you think of me, I care for them!” Bilbo said, raising his voice. “For all of you! And how else is Fili to receive news of his brother!”

SLAM!

Thorin had slammed his fist on the table, knocking over a few glasses. The diners at the farther end of the table had turned in shock at the outburst, the music stopped, while the others waited with bated breath.

“Fili,” Thorin emphasized every word in a dangerously low voice, “has. No. Brother.”

Chattering on the other side of the table resumed, music started up again. Thorin stood from his seat.

“I’ve had enough of this,” he looked to Bilbo. “When you are finished, I would speak to you . . . _alone_.”

This last word was spoken with a fierce glance at Nauro, who glared back.

 


	15. Old Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin has come on very strange business with a very strange request.

 

Chapter 15: Old Friends.

 

“I can’t hear a thing!”

“Because they aren’t saying anything, genius.”

Unabashedly, Nauro and Estel were indeed crouching outside the doors of Lord Elrond’s study, where Bilbo had followed Thorin. Before entering, he had reassured his two friends he would join them later in the Hall of Fire, but they should leave them for now.

That wasn’t happening.

“Can you believe him?” Estel whispered to Nauro, both pressed to the doors. “What is his problem? What kind of King travels unescorted? And what about you!” He added with a final shove.

“What about me?”

“You haven’t said a word to him!”

“I have nothing to say.”

“I was expecting you to go all, you know, _dragoney!_ Pull some of your creepy tricks and scare him off.”

“Hmph,” Nauro shrugged, “too easy a prey.”

“I think I hear something!” Estel pressed himself harder to the door.

“What is it?” Nauro did the same.

“A pair of idiots perchance,” said Legolas’ incredibly disappointed voice, appearing behind them.

 

_“Ow! Legolas! I am not a child! Let go of my ear! Nauro, bite him!”_

Bilbo shut his eyes and sighed at the retreating voices from the other side of the door. Admittedly, he wasn’t entirely surprised.

When Bilbo showed such interest in Elvish literature and learning the language, Lord Elrond gave him access to his private study. He was allowed to use it at will, and was even given a key for the great doors. He felt no qualms in telling Thorin they could talk there in private.

Though there wasn’t much talking. Thorin was still standing by the fireplace, preparing his pipe. Bilbo had offered him some Old Toby he’d had delivered from the Shire, but Thorin stuck to his own waning supply. So Bilbo sat patiently in one of the two armchairs by the fire, blowing small smoke rings that hovered to the dark corners of the chamber.

“All this time, you’ve been here,” when the deep voice spoke at last, Bilbo jumped. “What happened to your precious Shire?”

“I got . . . distracted, I suppose.”

“That man . . .” Thorin said, looking to the now quiet door, “the Lake Town survivor. If he is from Lake Town.”

“We don’t know. We had hoped Lord Elrond could help Nauro recover his memories, but he couldn’t. He helped a bit though. When we arrived, Nauro could barely speak. He’s much better now.”

The dry leaves crackled in Thorin’s pipe, and the small flame momentarily lit his glowering eyes.

“But you didn’t come thousands of miles to hear about my friend’s recovery,” Bilbo added.

Thorin inhaled deeply, then exhaled a thick cloud of smoke that curled its way to the high roof. “You’ve seen the wizard?” he asked.

“Gandalf? He left after Yule. As usual, I never know when to expect him.”

“He came to Erebor, at my request.” Bilbo looked up with hope. Gandalf also regretted that he was not welcome in Erebor. Could this mean Thorin had forgiven him?

“I asked him to tell me about my father,” Thorin went on. “He’d been taken prisoner by the necromancer in Dol Guldur. All these years, he was there, suffering who knows what torments.”

Thorin’s voice became tight, and the words struggled to get out.

“Thorin, I—” Bilbo started but was stopped.

“They only wanted him because of this,” he produced a thin worn parchment from his coat. Bilbo took it and made out a detailed design of a thick ring, with a long stone embedded on its front. “Each of the seven royal Dwarf families was given a ring, to represent their house. Over the years, they were either stolen or destroyed. My father had the last of the seven. Gandalf said—it was taken from him, and he was left to rot in a prison of his own making. There were no walls to contain him, only filthy spells and conjuring tricks.”

Bilbo offered the parchment back, and locked Thorin’s gaze when he reached for it. “Was—was Gandalf able to save him?”

“Not for long.”

Thorin put the parchment back in his coat, and walked back to the fireplace. Bilbo had trouble meeting his gaze again.

“I’m sorry, Thorin. I know what he meant to you.”

“The necromancer apparently fled to Angmar, where the orcs have taken shelter.” There was an expectant pause. Bilbo suddenly felt wary.

“Why are you telling me all this?”

“I need you to a bit of burgling, one more time.”

Bilbo’s pipe slipped from his fingers. He didn’t notice.

“You’re not serious.” Thorin glared.

“Okay, you’re very serious,” Bilbo said, rising to his feet and walking over to the fireplace, “and you’re also out of your mind! Thorin, you mean to say you want to go into Angmar, a place infested with orcs, to retrieve a RING?! A ring you’re not even entirely sure is there, are you?”

“Where else could it be?”

“I don’t know! You could have asked Gandalf!”

“I did. He told me to forget it. To lay my father’s spirit to rest.”

“Sound advice,” Bilbo said and immediately regretted it. “Thorin, why is this ring so important?”

“It is an heirloom of my house!”

“Well, this sounds familiar.”

Thorin ignored the comment, and took another puff of his pipe.

“All I’m saying is, is this ring really worth the risk?” Bilbo said, trying to sound calm. “You have your kingdom, your throne and the stone! What difference will this ring make? And why exactly do you need me to get it?”

“You have very specific skills, an uncanny ability to break into places of danger, going unseen, sneaking about.” Bilbo clearly heard the disdain in that last part. “Besides, you owe me.”

“Owe you?” Bilbo scoffed in disbelief. “I fulfilled my part in the contract, and beyond I might add!”

Thorin looked him right in the eye, and the fire’s light glinted with rage. “I trusted you,” he said slowly. “And you betrayed that trust.”

“I did what I judged to be right!” Bilbo said, taking a step closer till he was practically chest to chest with the Dwarf king. “And as much as it pained me, and pains me still, I would do it again!”

“You would stab me in the back!” Thorin exclaimed.

“You were going to get them all killed!” Bilbo raised his voice, and he thought Thorin’s glare softened, however slightly, at this. “They all saw it, but they wouldn’t dare speak against you. Only you were not yourself.”

Thorin’s glare did shift, into something akin to shame. The memories of his time under the dragon sickness were surely dark. Bilbo stepped back, wondering if he could reach the more sensible side of his once friend.

“Thorin,” he said softly, “this is madness.”

The hesitance in the Dwarf king’s face did not last. A dark shade seemed to cross his features, and his eyes once again glinted at Bilbo.

“You owe me, burglar,” he said, the last word coming out like a growl.

The two faced each other in silence, neither backing down.

“I will await your answer,” Thorin said and walked out of the chamber. He opened the tall doors, only to meet with the tall stranger. Thorin looked momentarily startled, but he did not stop.

Nauro let him pass, glaring at every step. He looked back to Bilbo, who stood completely still, staring deep into the fireplace’s embers.

 


	16. Behind the Falls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo and Nauro discuss Thorin's request.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: JUST A HEADS UP, I’M SO SORRY, I CAUSED SOME CONFUSION WITH THE CHAPTER UPLOADS. FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO MIGHT HAVE MISSED IT, CHAPTER 13 IS AN ACTUAL CHAPTER NOW! I DELETED THE POST IT USED TO BE AND IT´S STILL CONTINUING THE STORY.

 

Chapter 16: Behind the Falls

 

Bilbo could not find sleep that night. He tried to write, but Thorin’s words reeled in his mind. Instead he found himself wandering late into the night. It was a path few knew of, and as far as Bilbo knew, it could only be reached through Lord Elrond’s study. There was a hidden passageway that led to an opening in the cliff’s side. It was the same place he had stood with Thorin, Balin and Gandalf while Elrond interpreted the Moon Runes on the map. The waterfall poured like silver rain while the moon lit up the sky. A shelf of quartz caught the moon’s beams, which usually gave Bilbo enough light to find his footing in the secluded space.

This night, the moon was thin and did not cast enough light for the clear crystal. So the quartz sat there dulled, and almost eerie. The sound of the waterfall felt heavy and rough, but Bilbo still shut his eyes and enjoyed the light spray that fell around him. The crisp autumn breeze soothed his worries.

“You owe him nothing,” Nauro’s voice broke through his thoughts.

“And you, my friend, have a very deep dislike for someone you’ve never met before.”

He felt Nauro sit next to him, swinging his far longer legs over the ledge. Bilbo opened his eyes and looked up into his friend’s typical scowl.

“I’ve met him,” he spoke in his deep voice, “the day he tried to kill you.”

“He wouldn’t have done it, Nauro. He just—wasn’t himself.”

“It looked pretty real to me.”

Bilbo breathed in deep and leaned back to look at the starless sky. Many thoughts flooded his mind, but only one made it past his lips.

“We’ve been friends for three years,” he started, “and I’ve never asked you why you followed me that night. You know, when _we_ first met.”

Nauro froze at this, and for once in their friendship, Bilbo could not read him. His face was stoic, his eyes gone. If there was any emotion brought on by that question, it was hidden from him.

“I don’t know. You . . .” Nauro’s usual ease with words stumbled, “you reminded me of—something.”

“Of what?” Bilbo asked eagerly. Nauro had never mentioned anything about remembering.

“I have no idea,” he said quickly, then was silent.

“Thorin also chose to trust me,” Bilbo said, but it was so soft it could have been drowned out by the cascading waters. “When he was—well, sick, he just withdrew. He ignored Balin, pushed Dwalin away. He wouldn’t even look Fili and Kili in the eye. But for some reason, he spoke to me. He mistrusted everyone around him, except me. And I betrayed him.”

Nauro couldn’t stop himself rolling his eyes. “It doesn’t mean you have to risk your life. Legolas has spoken often about Angmar, the horrors beyond those gates. And I remember the wizard’s stories about this—necroman. If even Gandalf was nearly killed, what chance does a Dwarf and a Hobbit stand?”

He spoke but at the sight of Bilbo looking transfixed at a sky with no stars, he knew his words fell on deaf ears. He sighed exasperated and let his head fall backwards.

“You’re actually considering it,” he said to the overhead of rock above them.

“Of course not! It would be crazy, wouldn’t it,” Bilbo said, trying very hard to sound outraged.

Nauro plopped down completely on his back. Bilbo couldn’t help but snicker at the gesture. The moon rose a few inches further into the sky before he spoke again.

“There’s another question I’ve never asked you. What do you want to do?” he looked down at the soft rise and fall of his long friend’s chest. “You would never come to the Shire. If I went home, what would you do? Would you stay here in Rivendell? Go back to Lake Town? Maybe Gondor—”

In a sudden savage instant, Nauro was on his feet. Bilbo was startled by the suddenness of his movements. Perhaps his questions went too far. The tall creature stood now, dangerously close to the brink of the ledge, to the chasm beneath them. Bilbo fought the urge to pull him back.

“We’re a strange pair,” the silky voice returned. “I have no home to go to, and you seem keen on avoiding yours.”

“No, not avoiding. Just—” Bilbo stood as well, staring nervously at his pensive friend, “just not in so much of a hurry.” He took a few steps back, hoping Nauro would follow him, and come away from the darkness.

“You want another adventure, fine!” Nauro suddenly said, turning round to face him and throwing his arms out at each coming phrase. “Go hunting with Estel and Legolas next time, or wander the wild with Gandalf. You don’t have to walk to your death.”

“Stop being so dramatic!” Bilbo said, half smiling. “And I’ll have you know, I’m not entirely helpless! Before we met, I survived trolls, Goblins, giant spiders, and a live dragon!”

“See! You _are_ considering it!” Nauro pointed at him accusingly, moving closer.

“I am not!”

“If you think for one second I’d let you—”

“I’m sorry, _let me_?” Bilbo stopped him.

Nauro’s words fell and his mouth snapped shut. He had been protective of Bilbo since their first meeting, but never so— controlling.

Was this the voice taking hold again?

“You are my friend, Nauro, not my keeper.”

The wind shifted, and a cold spray of water hit them both. Bilbo shivered and wrapped his arms around himself.

“Come on, let’s go back inside,” he said at last, grabbing hold of Nauro’s pale hand. “Your skin is always so cold!”

“I’m not cold,” he grumbled.

Bilbo shook his head and smiled fondly, leading the towering oaf back the dark passageway, none of his doubts truly answered.

 


	17. By the Fire's Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Estel learns something about Legolas' past, and Bilbo makes his decision.

 

Chapter 17: By the Fire’s Light

 

Thorin proved to be a little too patient while he waited for Bilbo’s answer. He kept to his rooms and rarely emerged save for evening meals. If he did, he wouldn’t even acknowledge Bilbo’s presence. This made the Hobbit far more nervous.

Neither had mentioned Thorin’s request to Legolas or Estel, though Bilbo was tempted to ask for their advice, especially without Gandalf around. He could still imagine what everyone would say.

_Legolas: Of course not! The Dwarf is clearly out of his mind!_

_Estel: Are you out of your mind?!_

_Arwen: You must follow your heart._

_Elrond: I will say there is wisdom in caution, but there is no rest for those who hesitate._

_Gandalf: Adventure! Go forth!_

_Nauro: No._

Yes, Nauro’s opinion seemed to be the loudest and clearest, mostly because he was still the only one who knew about the whole matter and every day made his opinion loud and clear. His distrust of Thorin was practically palpable.

So for the time being, Bilbo went out of his way to avoid the Dwarf king.

As for Thorin, since Nauro never spoke in his presence, he took the tall stranger for a simpleton. It probably didn’t help when late one afternoon he thought he saw the Hobbit in the stranger’s company walking from the gardens. But when he looked again, it was only the stranger bent low and swatting at the air around him saying something like “Take it off! Take that thing off! Give it to me!”

After that, he was certain the pale man was not in his right mind, and quite possibly delusional.

Estel walked into that same scene, and admittedly was just as confused. By the time Thorin had retreated further into the gardens, Nauro was almost on his knees still grasping at the air around him.

“Ouch! Did you just kick me?” he hissed, looking around wildly.

“What are you _doing_?” Estel asked estranged.

Nauro swirled round at Estel, then looked completely flummoxed. “I was just—” he mumbled, still looking around, “you know.”

“Nnnno, I don’t,” the youth answered. “And I think you just gave King Broody Under the Mountain more fuel for future insults. You look like a madman.”

At this, Nauro’s expression changed and he smirked, saying overly loud and enunciating every word: “Oh, I’m suuuuure if I were to _explain_ the situation to you, it would make perrrrfect sense!”

“Of course it would!”

Estel almost fell over startled as Bilbo appeared next to him.

“Where did you come from?! You scared me half to death!” Estel dramatically threw his hand over his heart and breathed deeply.

“Just fooling around, ha ha,” Bilbo laughed mechanically, then threw a side glare at Nauro’s pleased smirk. Needless to say, Bilbo did not want anyone else to know about his ring. It was enough having Gandalf and Nauro pestering him about it. And Nauro knew this all too well.

Normally Bilbo avoided using it if Nauro was around, since the man was convinced the ring was “no good.” But seeing Thorin so suddenly in the garden, he panicked.

“Phew! Well, if you two are done playing, Langon sent me to find you. He said he’ll take your letters now, if you’ve finished.”

“Oh, yes! I’d forgotten! Kili’s letter! I also wanted to include a note to Fili, just to let him know his uncle is safe.”

The three walked back up the path together.

“So what is this whole business with—Bili and Mili? What was all that at dinner the other night?”

“Fili and Kili,” Bilbo said, emphasizing their names, “are Thorin’s nephews, and only heirs. But shortly after the Battle of the Five Armies, it seems Kili declared his love for Tauriel—”

“And who’s that?”

At this, both Bilbo and Nauro turned surprised.

“You—I mean—” Bilbo fumbled. “Didn’t Legolas ever tell you about her?”

“Legolas? No, you know he never really talks about, well, anything. And what does he have to do with Oakenshield’s heirs?”

“Oh,” Bilbo said at last, “well, the thing is, Tauriel was a captain of the guards for King Thranduil. That is, until she was banished from the Mirkwood realm.”

“And a Dwarf fell in love with her?” Estel exclaimed in disbelief.

“And she with him,” Bilbo defended. “After the battle, Kili went to his uncle and asked his family’s leave to court her. It was denied, of course, and Thorin threatened to disown him if he insisted. Kili apparently walked out of the Mountain that very day, and was declared banished shortly after.”

“How do you know all this?”

“A detailed report from Balin. He was outraged by Kili’s behavior, but still heartbroken at the outcome. Anyway, both Kili and Tauriel, finding themselves homeless and without a people, took to wandering the lands. Sometime later Tauriel started writing to Legolas. He gave the letters to me, so I took over correspondence for the banished couple.”

Estel turned to Bilbo, then his eyes strayed to the path at his feet.

“He’s never mentioned her,” he said pensively. “Wonder why.”

“I wouldn’t bring it up, if I were you,” Bilbo said. “I’m sure he will tell you in time.”

Both Estel and Nauro scoffed. Bilbo glared at them but ultimately shrugged in agreement. The Mirkwood prince was not known for sharing.

 

As they entered the long hall, Langon was on his way out. Bilbo asked him to wait till he fetched his letters. He’d been working at them all morning in the Hall of Fire, so he must have left them near his favorite armchair. Bilbo raced through the long hallways, his feet slapping the fine stone and echoing off the high ceilings.

He reached the entrance of the Hall and froze. Hiding himself in the doorway, he peered out enough to make out the figure of the King Under the Mountain near the very armchair Bilbo was making for.

He was standing close to the fire, holding a thick piece of parchment up to the light. Bilbo realized with dread it was Kili’s letter, the one meant for his brother. Thorin must have spotted it among Bilbo’s other letters, the Khuzdul writing no doubt catching his eye.

Thorin’s back was turned to him, so he could not see his reaction as he read. But Bilbo could imagine various expressions as he was reading what could only be a detailed account of the youngest Durin heir living in (by Dwarvish law) illegal wedlock with an ELF, and about to sire a child with said ELF!

For a moment, Bilbo feared the letter would be thrown into the fire, or torn to shreds. The words meant for Fili would never reach him, and that thought alone was enough for Bilbo to feel brave enough to march up to the King and give him an earful on private property.

It wasn’t necessary.

Bilbo had scarcely summoned the courage to leave his hiding place at the door when Thorin moved from the fireplace. The parchment was whole and intact in his large hands. He moved slowly, and with almost reverence, he returned the parchment to the pile of letters left on the armchair. His fingers even hovered over the parchment, and his eyes lingered on it as well. The expression on his face was filled with sorrow, and his brow furrowed with regret.

With a deep breath, he turned and made to leave the Hall. He did not encounter the Hobbit at the door, though Bilbo was still there, watching the retreating form of his old friend from the hazy world of the ring.

“Thorin.”

The Dwarf King swung round startled, though his stoic face did not betray this. He turned to find Bilbo standing there, a strange look of pity in his eyes.

“Master Baggins,” he said, “I didn’t see you.”

“I’ve decided.”

Thorin turned completely, watching Bilbo with surprise and perhaps, hope.

“I will help you.”

 


	18. The Council of the Gazebo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo breaks the news of his coming journey . . . and it is not taken well.

 

Chapter 18: The Council of the Gazebo

 

“No!”

“Absolutely not!”

“Are you out of your mind?!”

“Of all the hair-brained schemes . . .”

“I knew he was mad . . .”

“You are NOT doing this . . .”

And thus went on the cascade of reactions. Bilbo merely waited them out, rubbing his temple and envying his first exit from Bag End—no one to answer to and no one to lecture him about “hair-brained schemes”.

He’d gathered his three friends in one of the gazebos, close to a grand fountain. The midmorning sun burned with a dull glow, smothered by thick autumn clouds.

“Right, if you are all finished,” Bilbo said when there was a moment’s pause, “firstly, I would like to make it quite clear that I am not asking for anyone’s permission here. I was informing you of my decision. And second!” he went on quickly before another cascade of protests started. “I am well aware of the danger, but please believe me when I say this is something I need to do.”

“Bilbo, we all admire your sense of honor,” Legolas said, his voice sympathetic but firm, “still a stout heart will not protect you from the evil that hides behind those gates. I have seen them for myself, and the memory is ill. I could feel it. Something lurked, waiting, like a coiled serpent.”

“There will be two of us, and we’re both small enough to go unnoticed. It’s not like we’ll be charging in, weapons drawn . . . I hope.” He added under his breath, remembering that he was indeed traveling with Thorin Oakenshield.

“You’re speaking as if this is actually happening,” Estel said, rubbing his eyes, “aside from wanting to go after a Necromancer— something that neither Gandalf or Elrond will even speak of except to say it is, and I quote, “pure evil”— so chasing after pure evil, and the ghosts under his control, plus orc survivors from the battle at Erebor, entering a land that Legolas himself says is—evil—you want to go in the company of someone who when last you met, tried to throw you off a high wall over a shiny rock. And you want to go with Murder King to get another shiny thing. I’m trying to see the appeal of this mission.”

“You say you admire my honor,” Bilbo started, standing firm, “well, Thorin Oakenshield is the most honorable man I’ve ever met.”

“Yes, one who was willing to declare war on two armies for the sake of treasure,” Legolas said, standing as well.

“He wasn’t the only one willing to go to war over riches that day!”

There was silence for a moment, as Legolas clearly could not counter this fact. Bilbo took a deep breath and resumed his speech.

“What I’m trying to say is, there is a lot more to Thorin than any of you are willing to see. He is my friend, and I feel I owe him this much.”

“That’s quite a debt,” Estel mumbled, grabbing hold of a long stick and twirling it in his hand.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, and the air around them chilled. A faint drizzle fell about the gazebo, and the four figures inside remained unmoved.

“I’m coming with you.”

“Nauro . . .”

“That wasn’t a request,” the pale man sneered in mockery of Bilbo’s earlier words, “I was _informing_ you of my decision.”

Bilbo opened his mouth to argue, but quickly realized it would be a waste of time to argue. He just shook his head and smiled at his friend.

“Well, then,” he said, turning to Legolas and Estel, “does this set your mind at ease?”

“Let’s see,” Estel said, leaning back, “Murder King, Book Worm, and Wolf in Elf’s Clothing. All skipping merrily into a place of general evil. Suddenly I’m full of comfort.”

“Estel—” Bilbo groaned annoyed.

“And just how do you plan on being a bodyguard when you never learned to use a weapon?” he said turning to Nauro.

“I’ll find a way.”

“Orcs don’t scare as easily as Elflings, my friend,” Legolas said softly.

“Much less by two traveling companions who are more likely to tear each other apart than fight the enemy. Well, you leave me no choice,” Estel announced, jumping to his feet and swinging the stick like a sword. “I’ll just have to come along and make sure you don’t kill the Dwarf.”

“But you can’t!” Bilbo said surprised.

“You have a responsibility here!” Legolas spoke firmly. “Lord Elrond—”

“Left me in charge of his House, a haven for those in need. As host of the Last Homely House, I am responsible for its guests. Behold, its guests,” and he pointed at Bilbo and Nauro with the stick.

“I highly doubt Elrond meant extending that protection outside of his House.”

“He does things his way. I do things mine,” the youth shrugged and swung the stick in one final sword-like move. “Besides, Legolas can run this house much better than I can.”

“If you think I’m going to stay here and handle YOUR responsibilities, you are completely wrong,” Legolas stood slowly, facing Estel. For a moment, Bilbo thought he was going to witness another display of hand-to-hand combat between the two.

“With you as a guide, they’ll all end up in the Sundering Seas anyway,” Legolas sighed. “You’ll need someone who can actually read a map.”

 

Thorin was . . . less than thrilled.

Actually, he was furious.

Bilbo had eagerly told him of the three volunteers for the journey ahead, and was instead met with protests and an utter refusal to take them on. They had to wait till the following day until he’d cooled off enough to carry on a proper dialogue without breaking into Khuzdul insults. Even then, it wasn’t until Bilbo made it clear that he would not go without them that Thorin’s stubbornness was swayed.

The arguments continued in the following days of planning. Though they kept the purpose of the journey secret, the announcement that both Estel and Legolas would leave was not well received. Lindir was constantly trying to dissuade Estel from this journey, lecturing him about responsibilities and disgracing his House.

Legolas and Thorin were arguing just as much, about the route they would take. Legolas believed the safer route would be to cross the Bruinen and continue on open country, over where of old was Arnor. The lands were still under the protection of Elven Lords, and the disbanded orc packs would never strike in open country. It would take them longer, true, but they could approach Angmar from the East, from a route that was unguarded and unlooked for.

Thorin, on the other hand, argued that crossing the High Pass over the Mountains was faster, and they could follow the Misty Mountains range from ground level on the other side of the Hithaeglir. Faster, perhaps, but those were lands infested with orcs, not to mention the goblin-filled tunnels that spread beneath the Misty Mountains.

In the end, Legolas’ argument held sway, though Thorin continued to contradict him at every turn.

 

A feast was to be held on the eve of their journey. The day was spent packing and gathering supplies. Bilbo found himself excited to be on the road again, at least until they approached the dangerous part. Unconsciously, his fingers traced the outline of the ring in his vest pocket. Surely, with his magic ring, the task should be easy, and there will be no need for anyone—except himself and unseen—to venture into Angmar. It would mean having to tell his companions the truth about the ring, of course, but that could wait.

He looked about his quarters, with large open windows and a lower ceiling than the rest of the House. This had become his home in his three year stay, and the thought of leaving it was much harder than he’d initially thought. Instead of allowing himself to be dissuaded by the comforts of his little room, he decided to go find Nauro.

He was not in his chambers, and none of the packs he’d been given were packed. Bilbo sighed at this, knowing it meant he was going to have to pack for him. _Really!_

He wandered about the Halls and such, asking anyone he came across if they’d seen him. None had, so he knew it meant having to search the gardens, which were quite vast. He was prepared to start when another option struck him, climbing the stairs instead to his own writing perch, the circular window he had long ago chosen for inspiration, seeing as how it looked out over the entire valley.

Nauro was there, sitting on the window sill and looking out at the view.

“Here you are!” Bilbo said, huffing after the stairs. “You, sir, are not ready yet.”

Nauro shrugged. “You’d unpack and re-pack everything anyway. Thought I’d save you the extra step.”

Bilbo laughed to himself and climbed up to join Nauro on the sill. Despite the beauty of the view spread out before them, he couldn’t take his eyes off his quiet friend.

“You seem troubled.”

Nauro didn’t turn. He spoke softly: “I just had—a feeling.”

“What kind of feeling?”

“I’m . . . afraid.”

“Of going to Angmar? You don’t have to come—”

“Yes, I do,” he snapped, turning to look at Bilbo. “And that is not it.”

“Then what are you afraid of?”

Nauro slowly turned back to the far horizon.

“Not coming back.”

Bilbo was surprised. Not only at the melancholy thought, but also the voice that expressed it. Nauro sounded afraid. His voice was far softer and uncertain than ever. It was almost . . . heart-breaking.

“Hey,” Bilbo said placing a hand on his shoulder, “what is this talk? Of course we’re coming back! We’re going there and back again, all of us.”

Nauro turned, but there was no hope in his gaze. It was like there was a terrible weight on his shoulders, and the burden had aged him overnight. Bilbo had never seen him look so . . . human.

“Do you really believe that?”

“Of course!” Bilbo said, with more certainty than he probably felt, “and you must too. We're taking a safe road, and if all goes well, we won't even have to venture far into Angmar. And if we do run into trouble, we are traveling with heroes! Strong warriors, and as always, we will have each other's backs. Won't we?”

Nauro did not look convinced. He turned his head back out to the view, the lands stretching far away from them, to an endless sky. But Nauro wasn’t looking at that.

He was looking at the gardens below them. At the beautiful craftsmanship in every pillar, every stone, every statue or fountain overrun by vines and fall leaves.

“Beautiful,” he whispered.

Nauro _knew_ things. He could not explain it, but from the moment of his "birth", deep in the waters of Long Lake, there were things he knew. The words that floated from the dark recesses of his mind, the concept of different races, and the features that distinguished those races. He could tell Elves, Men, Dwarves, Wizards apart from each other. He knew what gold was. He knew what death was.

The more he recovered control over his mind and thoughts, the more he knew things. At times, he realized, there were things that had yet to happen. Or things that others could not see or sense as he could.

Sometimes they came as visions, or dreams. Sometimes they were simply there, in his mind, and the voice in the dark would whisper them.

He _knew_ he and Bilbo had met before.

He _knew_ Estel was not what he seemed.

He _knew_ he was not human.

And now, he somehow _knew_ these were the last times he would see the Hidden Valley with waking eyes.

 

A deep melancholy weighed his fair features. And it broke Bilbo’s heart.

 


	19. A Journey New Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The travelers are ready to head out, but not before Estel shares something about his past with Legolas.

 

Chapter 19: A Journey New Begins

 

The feast was splendid and carried on far into the night—despite the travelers having to set out at first light. Even Thorin made an appearance. The only soul not enjoying himself was Lindir, who still tried to dissuade Estel from leaving the House of Elrond. His pleas however were drowned by the music and dancing.

It wasn’t till the moon was high in the sky, and many of the dancers had settled into chairs and couches, and the fires were burning low, that one Elf stood and announced a song.

“It’s by one of our fellow composers,” he said merrily, and much to the Hobbit’s thrill, he started a song Bilbo had written once they had returned from the Lonely Mountain. The singer had a fair voice, and the words eased those who heard it.

 

_Roads go ever ever on,_

_Over rock and under tree,_

_By caves where never sun has shone,_

_By streams that never find the sea;_

_Over snow by winter sown,_

_And through the merry flowers of June,_

_Over grass and over stone,_

_And under mountains in the moon._

 

_Roads go ever ever on,_

_Under cloud and under star._

_Yet feet that wandering have gone_

_Turn at last to home afar._

_Eyes that fire and sword have seen,_

_And horror in the halls of stone_

_Look at last on meadows green,_

_And trees and hills they long have known._

 

Those who heard the song were reminded of long roads, of tiring journeys, of discomfort found in the outlandish and the foreign, and of the home that awaited them at the end of it all. For some, it was fair lands of rolling green hills and vast gardens, or forests whose trees seem to turn ablaze in the autumn while feasts are held under the starlight. For others, it was a small home under a hill with a warm hearth, a comfortable armchair with books waiting to be read; or deep caverns filled with silver light and the sounds of hammers echoing.

For one person in that Hall, there was no memory. The words only heightened what he felt and saw at that moment; a warm fire, good food, others at ease and one small figure at his side.

 

The original plan was to leave at first light, but after much wine and ale and merriment the night before, the hour of departure was moved to midmorning. For which both Bilbo and Estel were VERY thankful as they were both nursing terrible headaches.

By the time Bilbo and Nauro made it to the stables, Thorin was already there, surveying the various servants who were preparing their mounts.

Thorin’s pony was named Zirak; it was Khuzdul for silver, because of the white patches on his forehead and hooves, which next to his black hair looked silver under a certain light. He was surprised to see another pony led out of the stables and prepared with a saddle and pack. The creature looked familiar.

“Hello, Myrtle! Who’s a good girl!” Bilbo said, petting the brown and white head that nuzzled at him. He noticed Thorin staring. “You remember her, surely? She was among our company’s ponies. After they bolted from the trolls, apparently they wandered these lands for some weeks before Elrond’s people found them. They were all here by the time we arrived. Thorin was going to send them back to the Blue Mountains, but I couldn’t bear to be parted from this girl again. I sent payment with the envoy instead.”

Nauro’s horse was the same King Thranduil had given them for their journey to Imladris, Eleni, which was ancient Quenya for star. While most horses still reacted to Nauro’s presence, she had grown accustomed to him. Nauro still didn’t like to ride, and only did so when it was absolutely necessary. There wasn’t much love between him and the war horse, there was simply . . . tolerance.

Nikerym was Estel’s horse, given to him by Elladan. The name meant “captain,” though he had never known battle.

And finally there was Legolas’ mount, a present from his father sent to him two years past. No doubt as a peace offering. She was one of the spawns of Thranduil’s own majestic Elk, who tragically lost his life defending the city of Dale from the orc armies. She was a magnificent elegant creature, and Bilbo had been in such awe of her, Legolas let him name her. A gesture he soon came to regret, since Bilbo had given her the incredibly dignified name of . . .

“Bitsy,” Legolas patted her long neck, and spoke to her softly in Elvish.

She, and the rest of the mounts, seemed to be ready, and the servants were finished securing the packs and provisions. They were but one traveler short.

Legolas knew where to find him.

 

Lady Gilraen had died in Rivendell. There was no pain in her final hours, thanks to Lord Elrond. He had been unable to help her, but at least his medicine had eased her passing. Her body was given the proper funeral rites, and her ashes scattered in the gardens she had grown to love. A statue of fine marble was made in her likeness, and placed deep within a glade. Estel often went there alone, to read aloud, to sing, or simply to think. This morning though, he couldn’t think of anything to say.

He simply sat on a stone bench before the statue, and looked long into the peaceful expression on the statue’s visage.

“She was a healer,” he said to the approaching footsteps behind him. “She spent so much of her time healing others, saving lives, but she could not save her own.”

“I’m sure she was a fine lady,” Legolas said, standing behind his young friend.

“I wish she could have met Arwen,” Estel said, dreamily, “all of you really. Though she probably would have driven Bilbo mad, telling him how cute he was. And pestering Nauro into eating more, or something.”

Estel laughed at this, and Legolas smiled in response.

“Yours?” the youth asked, not really expecting an answer.

“I have no memory of her,” the Elf prince spoke. “Only what my father will tell me. And it is not much.”

 _Like father, like son,_ Estel thought to himself.

“What of your father?” Legolas asked.

Estel turned. In all their time together, Legolas had never asked him about his family.

“No idea,” he shrugged. “She never spoke of him, except to say that he was a good man. Lord Elrond refuses to tell me anything about him either. He must have been some wealthy lord who was already married and had an affair with my mother. Or who knows, maybe some unknown peasant and that’s why her family disowned her and she came here. I don’t know.”

Estel stood, and standing on his toes, he reached out to caress the smooth marbled face of the statue, trying to catch the distant memory of that touch.

“That’s my legacy. Questions with no answers.”

“Perhaps,” Legolas started slowly, “the answers are still to come.”

Estel sighed as he stepped away from the memorial.

“Won’t that be a blessed day,” he said gravely. Resuming his usual cheeriness, he turned on his heel and offered his best smile. “But it is not today,” he said. “Today we are off on an adventure! Onward!”

And they left the glade together, the white statue of fine marble standing alone, a single reflection of light in the midst of trees and foliage.

 

And so it was, with the midmorning sun high in the sky, the five travelers left the Hidden Valley. Many songs and good wishes sent them on their way—and some last minute pleas from Lindir. Nauro stopped Eleni and turned to look once more as they passed the last archway. The beauty of Rivendell shone brightly, and he wanted to remember every part of it. When he turned round again, Bilbo was waiting for him.

 _We are coming back_ , his sympathetic smile read.

Nauro nodded in response, and easing Eleni forwards, caught up with Bilbo. They made their way down the path, where the others were already far along.

 


	20. On Dueling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first night away from home is always the hardest.

 

Chapter 20: On Dueling

 

Crossing the Bruinen was uneventful, and by late afternoon they had left the ford behind them and entered new woods.

“Be on your guard,” Legolas said, “we have left Lord Elrond’s domain. There will be no patrols in these parts.”

“Have there been many orc sightings here?” Bilbo asked.

“Not this close to the ford, but the farther we get from the valley, it is best to be vigilant.”

They decided to make camp before it got too dark. A good fire was started, and they ate at their leisure. It was mostly Estel and Bilbo who spoke, since Legolas was one for few words, and Nauro and Thorin were busy glaring daggers at each other.

After dinner, Bilbo was busy clearing up the plates and double checking some of the provisions. Nauro stretched out over a fallen log, groaning at how stiff he felt from riding all day. Thorin was sitting farther away from it all, smoking his pipe and his gaze lost. Estel, on the other hand, felt invigorated, and almost instantly after eating challenged Legolas to some practice dueling.

They’d been at it for some time. Twenty or so minutes in, Estel was breathing heavier but still laughing. He was sweating profusely and his movements were slowing, however slightly. Legolas hadn’t even broken a sweat, and the mocking smirk on his face hadn’t faltered.

“Had enough?” he asked.

“Never!” Estel announced, coming at him again.

Legolas easily dodged the attack, and in a few slick moves, had disarmed the youth . . . again.

“Well, I’m bored,” Legolas shrugged dramatically and sheathed his sword. He lightly stepped over any stick or log in his path, and practically danced his way next to Bilbo, who couldn’t help but roll his eyes at the display. Estel was leaning against a tree, catching his breath.

“Hah,” he scoffed, “weakling. Come on, Bilbo, you haven’t practiced in ages.”

“Nooo, thank you!” Bilbo laughed, putting away the last of the crockery.

“Nauro, you then!”

“No,” the pale man said, waving his hand in dismissal.

“Oh, of course, I forgot,” Estel said, straightening up, “you’re too afraid of losing.”

With slow purposeful movements, Nauro was on his feet, a glint in his eye.

“Nauro, don’t let him egg you on,” Bilbo said, grasping at the retreating figure.

Legolas leaned back against at tree, as if he were lounging on a comfortable seat for a spectacle. Even Thorin was alert and sitting up straight to watch the scene. Estel was ready in battle stance, his sword gripped firmly before him. Nauro removed his coat—the same coat Bard had given him on the shores of Long Lake— and stood at a distance from Estel, his hands empty.

“Well, go on,” Estel said, his eagerness betrayed in his voice, “get your sword.”

Nauro’s long lips broke into a fox-like grin. “Don’t need it.”

Bilbo stopped what he was doing and marched up to the two, shaking his finger at Nauro.

“No! You are _not_ doing this again!”

“Listen to mummy now. I won’t go easy on you,” Estel said, swinging the blade playfully.

“Estel, knock it off!” Bilbo snapped.

“Come at me, child,” Nauro purred, holding out his arms and puffing up his chest.

“Child?!”

“Nauro! Don’t you dare!”

“For the House of Elrond!” Estel cried out and lunged, sword first. The sharp tip inches from his chest, Nauro side stepped the attack, his back practically sliding along the blade’s surface. Estel stumbled, but caught himself in time and turned, set for another strike.

Bilbo gasped in terror, turned on his heel and stomped off in the other direction, throwing his arms in the air.

“I can’t— I’m not watching this. Kill yourselves if you want, I am NOT watching!”

Thorin had to admit he was . . . impressed. The pale man’s movements were mesmerizing. He dodged every attack with ease. As the two continued, he could tell Nauro was predicting Estel’s moves with an uncanny accuracy. Should he choose, he could have avoided each and every one before the sword even reached him. But he was allowing the sword to get close. He was moving away at the very last second, toying with his opponent, with the risk. The back and forth between the two reminded him of a slick serpent, teasing and toying with brash rodent. It only fueled his distrust of the stranger.

Estel made one final attack, trying to catch his slippery friend off guard. Instead, he found himself stabbing an innocent shrub and long white fingers hovering over his neck.

“Seriously, how do you do that?” he said defeated, letting his sword dangle uselessly in his hand as he straightened up.

“Don’t be a sore loser,” Legolas said, holding out a flask of wine to Estel as he walked to return his sword to its sheath.

Bilbo returned to the fire, glaring at Nauro, who had taken back his seat and continued to smile away. Bilbo shook his head at him. “I hate it when you do this. How many times do I have to ask you to look after yourself better?”

Nauro leaned in and whispered, so only Bilbo could hear, “Throw away that ring and we’ll talk.”

Bilbo pretended to ignore him and went about preparing his pipe.

“How _did_ you do it?”

The four turned, surprised to hear the voice of the Dwarf king for the first time in the whole day. His piercing eyes were set on Nauro.

“I don’t know,” he shrugged in earnest. “It’s just something I can do.”

“Moving like that, even for an elf,” Thorin went on in his deep voice, “it’s not natural.”

Nauro looked away. He was all too aware of that. For a moment, there was nothing but the peaceful crackling of the fire.

“I seem to remember,” the deep voice started up again, this time at Bilbo, “some of the Dwarves were teaching you to use your sword.”

“Ah, yes,” Bilbo said, with a stiff laugh, “there was a time, shortly after I got Sting. Balin had asked some of them to help train me. Bifur took it to heart, and Bofur was especially insistent. Nori was too enthusiastic about it, I’m pretty sure he knocked me out cold one time. But once we entered Mirkwood the lessons stopped and we never really had any time after that. But I did learn how to stop a blow at least . . . if it’s aiming right for my head. Thank you, Nori.”

The others laughed softly at the story. Thorin on the other hand stood and walked over to the packs and provisions. In two quick moves, he drew out Orcrist, goblin-cleaver, and Sting. Bilbo was already shaking his head by the time the Dwarf King had approached, holding out Sting.

“No, no! I really don’t—”

“Let’s see how much you remember,” Thorin said simply and almost dropped the small blade in Bilbo’s lap.

“Well, this should be interesting,” Estel mumbled, leaping over the fire to get a better seat next to Legolas. Nauro visibly tensed, and his storm grey eyes seem to glow with the fire’s light as he followed every step, every move, of the Dwarf and Hobbit.

Bilbo followed Thorin to the same patch of clear space where Estel and the others had “dueled”. It had been months since he’d held Sting, and the small blade felt cold in his hand. He looked up to see Thorin moving into position, the long Elf blade swinging smoothly, back and forth, as he warmed up his arm and wrist. Bilbo tried to imitate the movement, but Sting slipped from his grip like a fish.

“Sorry,” he mumbled at no one in particular as he dove to pick it up, Estel snickering at a distance.

“Ready?” Thorin asked, his body instantly in attack mode.

“Not really,” Bilbo mumbled.

The attack came fast and fierce, still Bilbo held his own. Through sheer luck he stopped every blow. His defense was clumsy and guided solely through gut reaction, but he was able to protect himself from blows that came fast and from a higher stance. Even so he was no match for Thorin, and very quickly his strength was waning, while the Dwarf King was just getting warmed up.

Estel cringed at the initial assault, and though Legolas reassured him with a hand on his shoulder, he was just as nervous. Nauro had shifted from a leisure pose to a tense crouch, as if ready to sprint at any moment.

Thorin started advancing with each swipe of the sword, and Bilbo had no choice but to step back, while also trying to keep his head . . . literally. Multi-tasking was no easy feat, and within three steps, Bilbo’s feet became tangled on roots and he lost his balance. Swing flew from his flailing arms, and he landed heavily flat on his back. Once he recovered his bearings, it was to see Legolas and Estel on their feet by the fire, and Nauro advancing rapidly on Thorin.

“I’m fine!” he cried out, waving one scraped hand and laughing with embarrassment. “I’m fine! Trust a Hobbit to trip over his own feet in the middle of a duel. Nauro! Give a hand.”

The fuming man stopped before reaching Thorin, and not without hesitation, he changed his stomping course for Bilbo. He helped him to his feet and surveyed the Halfling carefully to make sure he was uninjured. Bilbo on the other hand kept laughing off the whole thing, shaking leaves and dirt off his clothes. The other two by the fire relaxed, and Thorin sheathed his sword, the duel clearly over. Legolas had joined Estel in heaving a sigh of relief, but then he turned, his eyes intent on the dark woods.

“Legolas?” Bilbo asked. The Elf prince raised his hand, signaling everyone to be quiet.

Nauro was the next one to hear it.

Footsteps on forest ground approaching . . . and fast.

The steps were close enough that the lesser keen ears could hear them. Thorin seized Orcrist again, just as Estel and Legolas raced for their weapons. Nauro snatched Bilbo’s wrist and started pulling him, but froze at the Hobbit’s gasp of pain.

“It’s just my ankle,” he whispered, taking another tentative step, “I must have twisted it when I fe—WAH!”

He exclaimed as he was swooped up off the ground and carried into the circle that had taken shape around the fire. Three warriors, an Elf, a Man and a Dwarf, with weapons drawn and glaring eyes intent on the direction of the approaching sound.

A dark figure broke through the shadows of the trees and the brushes and the brambles. Instead of charging at them however, it proceeded to collapse to the ground and whimper pitifully. It was a woman, white as a sheet and gasping for breath. A nasty gash on her head, and she blinked repeatedly past the blood streaming down her face. She looked up, her eyes wild and her hands shaking with fright. Whatever horror she had seen to put her in such a state was not helped by the sight of a stern Elf, a scraggly youth, and a fierce Dwarf lowering their weapons, and a very tall man holding what looked like an outraged child in his arms.

She fell on the ground in a swoon. Legolas ran to the woman, turning her on her back and examining the wound. Estel tried to get her to drink from the wine skin. Thorin on the other hand made his way past them and towards the direction the woman had come from; holding out his sword and keeping a wary eye for whatever might have been chasing her. Bilbo desperately wanted to help, but Nauro made no sign of setting him down until the threat was clear.

The woman was revived by the wine, but they could still get little out of her.

“Please . . .” she finally managed to gasp, pointing weakly in the direction from whence she’d come, “please—”

“It’s alright,” Estel said in a surprisingly soothing voice. “Tell us what happened. What’s after you?”

“Orcs,” Thorin said, stepping out from the shadows, Orcrist glowing a faint blue hue in his hand.

“Orcs?!” Bilbo exclaimed. He had rather hoped to avoid the filthy creatures for as long as possible.

“Please—” the woman tried again, her hand suddenly gripping Estel’s coat, “help—my family! Help!”

A shaking finger pointed deep into the woods, past Thorin’s figure, and the pale blue light emanating from Orcrist seemed to flicker brighter and brighter.

 


	21. Orc Raid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The company is met with most unpleasant fellow travelers.

 

Chapter 21: Orc Raid

 

“Really, Nauro, I can walk!” Bilbo whispered as low as he could. Nauro ignored him.

The small company had decided to retrace the woman’s tracks. She was still incoherent and trembling, almost catatonic in Legolas’ arms. Despite carrying the extra weight, the Elf still moved silently and stealthily in the woods. Estel and Thorin lead the way, finding the woman’s tracks with the light from Orcrist’s blade. Nauro walked behind them, Bilbo hanging from his back.

“You can hardly expect to fight while giving a Hobbit a bloody piggy back ride!” Bilbo insisted, but only got a sharp _SHH!_ in return.

The small house loomed ahead, its doors and windows flown wide open. One light burned from within, bleak and dull. The only signs of life were high pitched shrieks of glee and mockery as a pack of orcs raided the house. The group stayed out of sight, and the woman gasped in fear.

“Upstairs,” she whispered, “I told them to hide. T-t-to stay quiet—”

Legolas set her down, out of sight. “Your children?” he asked. She nodded heavily, her wide eyes locked onto the ravaged house. Nauro also set Bilbo down, who hopped over to the trembling woman and tried to soothe her. “Stay here,” Legolas said softly, then addressed Nauro and Bilbo directly. “Keep out of sight.”

Without exchanging a single word, the Elf, youth and Dwarf made their way through the dark woods, headed towards the back of the house.

“If the children are alive, they’ll be hidden in the second floor.”

“Orcs have keen noses,” Thorin said heavily, “they may have found them by now.”

“That must be the husband,” Estel whispered, pointing at a figure on the ground, a few steps from the front door. “How could this happen here? These lands should be protected,” he added, his voice tightening in his throat. 

“We need to draw them out.”

“Leave that to me.”

The body of the husband was face down, his useless club still clasped in his hand. Estel knelt next to him, holding out his hand over the nose and mouth. _Still breathing,_ he thought with relief. Now to draw the scum out.

The orcs delighted in their chaos, shredding, tearing, ripping everything in sight. Every bit of food was scattered, or had been scarfed down. No piece of furniture stood. Now if only they could sniff out the whereabouts of the remaining sniveling meat bags. Perhaps burning down the place would reveal their hiding place—

Such delectable thoughts of further death and destruction were rudely interrupted by singing. Not their singing, as they had been bleating their own abominable tunes as they drained the house’s ale. No, this singing was coming from outside.

The orcs piled at the doorway, weapons at the ready. Instead of being confronted by a new threat, they instead froze at the sight of an _ilid_ boy singing loudly to the night sky, his arms held out as if he were singing to a crowd instead of silent woods.

“ _Oh, please to beeee, won’t you be my maaaiden faaaaaaaaair_ — oh, hello there!” the figure turned, and from the smell itself they saw it was in fact a filthy _shara!_ “I say, which one of you is my lady fair?”

The orcs looked confused, then insulted, then enraged. They crowded at the door, aching to rip apart this new meat bag.

They didn’t get far.

No sooner had the first two stepped past the threshold, they collapsed to the ground, arrows sticking out of their heads. The rest of the pack retreated back into the house for shelter, only to be cut down by Orcrist. There was no escape for the filth.

Amidst the flying arrows and the blue blade swinging about, Estel managed to make his way to the top of the stairs. There were three rooms before him, but only one had the door smashed in. He entered to see a window in the room, close enough to the ground for the woman to have leapt out. Estel couldn’t help but admire her strength, to have pulled off such a feat when she was already injured. The orcs had been in the room, no doubt searching for her. Everything had been turned over, every bedding stabbed through. There was one particular scrape on the wooden floor that caught his eye. It was not made by any rusted blade, or even heavy orc print. It was dented deep in the floor, the crease years old. It was also in the shape of a half circle, like when you open a door— He looked up to the wall before him, over which a tattered quilt hung. He tore off what was left of the fabric and found a hidden door. The thick hidden door resisted his pull, but eventually gave in, revealing a small boy of five clutching the bundle that was his sleeping baby sister.

“It’s alright,” Estel whispered, holding out his hand to the trembling child, “you’re safe now.”

The boy was wary, but after blinking past the dark and realizing it was not an orc, he practically threw himself at Estel. The fighting downstairs had died down entirely, so he picked up both children and made his way down. Thorin was wiping the sword on the corpse of his last kill, while Legolas looked to the woods.

“Two got away!” the Elf prince uncharacteristically growled. 

“What?!” Estel set the boy down. The baby he set carefully on the overturned table.

“I ran out of arrows,” the Elf prince snapped enraged.

“Is that even possible?!”

“Estel!”

The youth stopped his snickering, realizing the direction in which Legolas was pointing.

“Bilbo . . . Nauro!”

 

Two orcs had burst through the shadows. Bilbo and the injured woman dropped to the ground, shielding themselves. But the horrid scouts were in too much of a hurry to mind them, and they continued their way, shrieking and gnashing their teeth as they went.

Nauro saw them, and for the first time in nearly three years, he willingly obeyed the voice in the dark.

_Catch it!_

With his unnatural speed, he gave chase, ignoring Bilbo calling him.

_Catchitcatchitcatchit…_

They were no match. The first orc went down instantly. Nauro practically crushed its spine, leaping onto its back and bringing it down full force.

_Kill it!_

His fists pounded. His hands tore. His throat snarled.

It _felt_ right.

Then there was silence.

When Nauro recovered his senses, it was because his hands felt heavy and drenched. He slowly lifted them, afraid of what he might see. Thick black blood coated his long pale hands. So black, he could barely make them out in the dark of the wood.

The orc scout was dead, and for a moment, Nauro felt sick at the savagery he had relished in. He was so stunned he did not notice the second scout, who after witnessing the fate of his fellow orc, disappeared into the woods.

 

“Bilbo!”

“We’re here!”

Estel had come crashing through the woods, and smiled with relief to see the Halfling and woman unharmed. His face dropped again upon realizing one was missing. “Where’s Nauro?”

“I don’t know!” Bilbo said anxiously. “He chased after two of them! I’ll go find him—”

“No need,” the familiar deep voice spoke behind them.

When Nauro emerged from the dark woods, he kept his hands hidden behind his back. When they helped the woman to her feet and made for the house, he made sure to wipe off as much of the inky black substance on any passing surface he came across.

 

The woman was reunited with her family, kissing her children repeatedly and vastly relieved that though terribly injured, her husband was still alive.

“The scouts?” Thorin asked the others.

“Nauro got them,” Estel said proudly, clapping his friend on the back, “would have liked to have seen that!” Nauro said nothing.

They watched the reunited family, and the same thought crossed their minds.

“We cannot leave them here,” Legolas started. “There could be other packs.”

Bilbo nodded, bracing himself for Thorin’s disapproval.

“There is another human village, twenty miles back,” the Dwarf king pointed west, and Bilbo was not the only one surprised at this.

“It will mean straying from our path,” Legolas went on.

“It cannot be helped,” Thorin answered, moving towards the huddled family.

 

They had helped the family gather what few possessions they could carry. Letting them ride the mounts, they moved far from the orc filled house. Once at a safe distance, they set up another camp and let the family sleep. There were few hours left to the night, and Thorin claimed there was no sleep in him so he would take watch.

Nauro slept fitfully. In his dreams, the orc was in his power, and he relived the savagery of the moment. When he felt his hands drenched in blood again, he looked down. Except this time, the blood was red.

Terror freezing his heart, he looked down to see the body beneath him.

He awoke with a scream frozen in his throat.

He looked around, gasping, struggling for breath. Everyone slept. Even Bilbo, the one closest to Nauro, went on sleeping undisturbed. Shivering, he stood on his feet and moved away from the camp. He felt drained, his body heavy and his mind still swirling with horrific images.

“I had dreams too.”

The voice startled him, and Nauro swung round to its source. He had not seen Thorin sitting in the dark, smoking his pipe.

“After the dragon came,” he went on, in a strangely sympathetic voice. “Couldn’t go one night without seeing it all again.”

Nauro realized the Dwarf thought he was still traumatized by the attack on Lake Town. He did not correct him.

“I found this usually helped,” he said, holding up his pipe.

“Tried it once. Didn’t like it,” Nauro mumbled.

“Take some wine then. It will help you sleep,” Thorin said, leaning back against the tree behind him, as if stating clearly that the conversation was over. Nauro felt the need to argue, or rather ignore the Dwarf’s words. But he suddenly felt very tired, and decided to go back. On his way, he took the wine skin with him.

 

 

The surviving scout ran far that night, and hid deep underground when day broke. Once night fell again, he continued his search. It wasn’t till three rise and falls of the moon that he reached his destination; an abandoned watch tower in the middle of empty lands where his captain would wait for news.

There were other orcs there already, and they did not take his report lightly. They jeered and mocked his cowardice, prodded and poked at his wounds. They laughed at the mere thought that an Elf and a Dwarf would fight together and take down an entire one of their squads. They laughed at the tale of the pale Man who destroyed one of their own with his bare hands.

But the hooded figure did not laugh. It did not speak. It merely sat, and listened, then thought deeply. When the hooded figure stood, standing on unseen feet, the orcs fell silent, and the surviving scout quailed.

It approached the trembling maggot, leaned in close, and though there was no visible face beneath the hood, the orc thought he could feel icy cold breath on his face.

His captain whispered a question, hissing every word in Black Tongue. The words were for the scout only. The others strained to hear what was said, but could hear nothing. The scout looked up into the hovering cloth and answered.

_“Akhoth!”_

A deep humming came from the hooded figure. It seemed to be pleased by whatever the scout had confirmed. It lifted a long arm, revealing a hand clad in a heavy gauntlet.

 _“Ssssssend word to Angmaaaar,”_ the hissing voice whispered, and the howling wind carried the terrible voice far into the night. _“Sssssay the masssster’s guessssst is on h-h-h-hissssssssss waaaaay . . .”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Black Speech words:
> 
> Ilid: Elf
> 
> Shara: Not Elf 
> 
> Akhoth: Yes, Sir!


	22. A Slight Detour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rescued family is not well enough to travel, so the company takes some time to return to their journey.

 

Chapter 22: A Slight Detour

 

Their going was much slower than they anticipated. Davin, the father, had never ridden a horse in his life, and Nykarim was uneasy having him and his squirming son on his back. Risa, the mother, had not quite recovered from the night before. She clutched her wailing baby and continuously nodded off in exhaustion, so Bitsy had to be stopped again and again. Bilbo was patient with the family, though he pestered Nauro on how tired he looked and whether or not he got enough sleep, receiving only dismissive grunts in return.

Legolas maintained a stoic expression, his gaze focused on their new route. Estel and Thorin, for once in agreement, did not hide their exasperation.

“I’m going to lose my mind,” Estel grumbled as the baby let out another wail with renewed energy. “Seriously, I’m about to lose. My. Mind!”

“We’ll never reach the village at this pace,” Thorin grumbled in return. “And that crying will bring down half the Goblin army on us.”

“We can hardly forsake them,” Legolas said, his voice neutral.

“Does _anything_ bother you?!” Estel snapped.

Nykarim reared, throwing off his weak rider for the third time that day, and the poor woman looked ready to collapse onto Bitsy’s neck.

“Alright, enough!” Estel said, grabbing hold of his horse’s reins. “We can’t go on like this. It’s no good.”

“I understand, my lord,” Davin said, humbly bowing his head, “we will trouble you no longer.”

“I-It’s no trouble,” oddly enough, it was Estel who suddenly felt humbled by the man’s demeanor. “I just mean we have to keep moving, but your family is clearly in no state to travel like this.”

“There were some settlements,” the weary woman spoke, Nauro helping her off Bitsy, “a few miles down that path. Perhaps there is something there— a wagon or—something . . .” Her words drifted off as she stumbled, supported on either side by the tall man and Bilbo.

“Right, Legolas and I will go. You and Nauro stay and look after them,” Estel said, pointing at Thorin.

“I do not take orders from any Man,” Thorin crossed his arms and glared deeply.

“Agh, fine, oh King Grump Under the Mountain,” Estel rubbed his hand over his eyes, not seeing the viciously murderous look the Dwarf king was giving him. “Would you be so kind as to use your majesticness to guard this family from impending danger and can we get on with this now?”

 

Davin insisted on going with Legolas and Estel to find the settlements, while the rest of his weary family collapsed on the side of the road. The mounts were left to graze, and the other travelers thought they could enjoy some peace. Then the baby started crying again. Both Thorin and Nauro looked ready to tear their own ears off. The younger son slept soundly, in spite of his sister’s cries. Risa looked far paler as she tried soothing her child.

“Why don’t you let me take her?” Bilbo asked, holding out his arms.

“Oh, I couldn’t—” she said weakly.

“Please, you must sleep,” he went on, “and I’m wonderful with children!”

Overcome by her own exhaustion, she complied. Bilbo could hardly wrap his arms properly around the babe. For humans, she was still an infant of a few months of age. For Bilbo, it was like holding a full sized Hobbit child. The child wailed even harder, and Nauro fled at the sight of it in Bilbo’s arms. Thorin huffed audibly, so Bilbo retreated further down the road, with the hope of getting the mother some well-deserved rest.

He wandered quite some ways, trying to bounce the screaming infant in his arms. He was holding her so awkwardly though, it was probably only making it worse. The woods around him were flooded with her screams.

“Oh, please stop crying, pleeeeease,” he said soothingly, though in truth his ears were ringing and his patience was waning thin, “pretty pretty please. I’ll sing you a lullaby, eh? No, wait, I don’t know any lullabies. Um— _Chip the glasses, crack the plates, that’s what Bilbo Baggins hates! That’s what Bilbo Baggins hates_ —”

The screaming increased.

“You know what Bilbo Baggins hates!” he said, looking the shrieking child in the eye. His rhetorical question went unanswered, as large heavy boots were stomping their way towards him. He turned to see Thorin’s usual scowl.

“I’m sorry! I’m trying—”

“Give ‘er here,” he said. The child fit in Thorin’s arms much better, and the Dwarf King cradled her snuggly. He hummed something low yet rhythmic, and the sound rumbled from his chest, soothing the fretting child. He sat on a moss covered rock, and within a few moments of gently rocking back and forth, humming, the infant’s cries had dwindled to soft coos. A few minutes more, the infant slept soundly. Bilbo was amazed. And moved at the sight of Thorin’s face as he looked on the sleeping babe. It was filled with peace and tenderness.

“That’s amaz—” Bilbo started but was silenced by one quick glance from Thorin. He sat on a nearby log and enjoyed the silence. As silent as the woods can be, of course. “You’re very good at that,” he said, softly that time.

“My brother in law left too soon,” Thorin said, his deep voice just as soft, “my sister needed every bit of help. Fili was a handful. Always hungry, crying day and night, never still. You’d take your eyes off him for a second, he’d be crawling halfway out the door.”

Bilbo laughed, trying to imagine Thorin chasing after a small blond Dwarf baby crawling away at full speed. Even Thorin smiled at the memory.

“What was Kili like?” Bilbo asked, before he could stop himself.

The peaceful atmosphere was shattered. A shadow seemed to cross Thorin’s face, and the tender smile dropped. He did not look at Bilbo. He simply stood and walked away, sleeping baby undisturbed.

 _You’re a fool, Bilbo Baggins!_ The Hobbit thought to himself, sighing deeply.

 

The sun was climbing high into the sky by the time Estel, Legolas and Davin had reached the settlements. It was an eerie sight, several cottages in tatters, woodwork and frames crumbling away in neglect. The woods around them had already started to reclaim what was man-built, vines, grass and weeds growing everywhere. Like Risa had predicted, there were two discarded wagons. One was useless, turned over and missing two of its wheels. A smaller one was still sturdy, though the woodwork was old.

“It’ll have to do,” Legolas said, attempting to shift it away from the brushes and mud formations that threatened to overcome it. Davin helped him.

The task would have been faster with three men, but Estel was distracted.

He could not take his eyes off of the ghost settlement. He approached one of the houses and looked closely at the façade. He ran his hand over the woodwork, his fingers feeling various familiar wounds: sword slashes, axe gashes, spear and arrow holes. His eyes spotted old scorch marks. And when he dared enter one of the houses, the one most overrun by time and the natural world, he gagged on the smell. Putrid. Decay. Death.

He stumbled out, his hand over his mouth.

“Are you ill, my lord?” Davin asked, stopping his task. Estel felt even more sick by the man’s tone. He did not care for the way his voice changed when he addressed him.

“What happened here?” he asked once recovering and breathing the clear air outside the house.

“Goblins, orcs, trolls, who knows anymore,” Davin said heavily. “They go about unchallenged, ravaging these parts.”

“Who is the master of these lands?” “Master, my lord?” the farmer shrugged.

“We’re too far from any of the trade roads, and even farther from any of the major cities, too far from anything to really matter. No one holds sway over these lands.”

“Why have you not come to Lord Elrond?” Estel asked. “Why has no one come to Imladris with this?”

“Who is Lord Elrond? And I’m afraid I don’t know of any place by that name, my lord, unless you speak of the Hidden Valley. And folk of our kind are hardly allowed there.”

“I grew up there!” Estel uncharacteristically snapped. Legolas had never known him to look so grim. “All are welcome there! The very reason for Elrond’s home is to be a haven for those who are lost, to offer aid to those in need. The Elves would never turn away from this!”

Davin was at a loss, possibly realizing for the first time he was not addressing an Elf youth, but a young Man. And he did not understand the reason for his passion. “I—I don’t know, my lord—”

“Stop that! I’m not your lord! I’m not a lord. I’m not anyone’s lord. I’m no different from—” Estel stopped himself at this. He was about to declare his equality to this farmer, when in truth they were not equal.

Estel had not known pain save the loss of his mother. He had not known responsibility save keeping up his studies to keep his foster father happy. He had not known danger save what he sought for himself. He was not equal to someone who survived, unprotected in the wild, everyday fighting not only for his life, but the lives of his loved ones. He had not known the people who lived in these houses. He had no reason to grieve for them, no more than a sympathetic human would for a fellow man. And yet his heart ached and raged at this sight.

Suddenly Nauro’s words returned to him. The words spoken in a trance:

_The fire will rage . . . From the void . . . The fire will rage . . . You will have to rage back . . . Rage on and on and on . . ._

The child-like drawing of the sun over a spiked tower, the glowering orb, it danced in his mind and fogged the waking world.

“Estel . . .”

It was Legolas’ voice that ruptured such visions. “Such is the way of the world,” the Elf prince said softly, “kings and lords look no further than their own borders, and the people suffer in silence. You can hardly expect to change it.”

“ _You_ can,” Estel answered, meeting Legolas’ eyes. The prince had no answer to this.

Estel looked once more at the houses that once sheltered life and now breathed death.

“How could anyone do nothing?” he asked no one in particular.

The question hung, unanswered in the still afternoon.

 

Nauro had found a solitary patch in which to sit, far from the wailing screams of the thing Bilbo had insisted on handling. Though mercifully the screams had died down. He continued to let his hand make shapes about the soft earth around him. The dirt with tiny pebbles and clumps of damp mud was real, unlike the thick black blood he felt still coated his hands. He let them burrow deep into the earth, dirt shuffling into his nails. When he looked on them again, there was nothing on them but the dirt with which he played.

“They are clean,” he whispered to himself. “They are clean.”

_Are they, though?_

“SHUT UP!”

Pain shot up his arm. His fist had flown of its own volition, and with the violent exclamation he had struck at a nearby tree. His own strength betrayed him. His “hide” was tough and thick, as the wizard often said. It took a lot to break his skin. And now it broke.

He had struck with such force, the stout tree had quivered, and the skin of his palm tore upon impact. Nauro looked upon his injured hand, trembling. The hand shook, and thin dots of blood welled. He was fascinated by this.

_How fragile._

The other child had found him, and the boy stared with wide curious eyes. Nauro only glared.

“Go away.” The boy simply tilted his head, as if to get a better angle of what he studied. “Go away or I will eat you.”

The threat made little impact. The boy stood his ground. Nauro cradled his injured hand to his chest, and the other drew circles in the earth. When he turned again, it was to see the same orb, with a slit down the middle.

“It looks like an eye,” the boy said.

Nauro turned his head. When had the little thing come so close?!

He was right. The orb his hand always sought to recreate on the soft earth . . . it looked like an eye.

A glowing eye of gold with a black slit in which the void waited . . .

The boy dropped on his knees and stuck his finger into the earth. For a moment, Nauro thought the child was going to draw the flames, emanating from the eye. But the chubby little finger drew five streaks from the top of the lid.

Eyelashes.

Nauro couldn’t stop himself laughing.

“Now the nose!” the boy giggled and looked to Nauro expectantly.

The tall man drew two long lines down from the eye, and the boy eagerly drew the nostrils below them. With firm dedication, the boy instructed Nauro on the next feature needed, and the man heeded every order to the letter. Thus was a ridiculous face shaped in the dirt by two unlikely comrades, and the memory of dark things was stayed.

 


	23. Warg Strike

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After word gets out of their valiant rescue, others in need turn to the strange company.

 

Chapter 23: Warg Strike

 

The rickety wagon sufficed. Though the traveling was still slow, the family was able to recover while Nikerym and Eleni pulled them on an open road. Legolas did not ride Bitsy, he walked instead with Nauro and Estel. The three could follow at a good pace, while Bilbo and Thorin rode in their ponies ahead.

They did not speak.

After a journey of two full days, they finally arrived at the secluded village on the eve of the third night. The family was received at the border, and welcomed by an old friend of Davin. Risa thanked them all with grace, but she had more words for Bilbo, wishing him long life and health.

After that, she offered her baby once more to Thorin. He removed his thick gloves and placed a large hand over her head. She cooed happily, her small fingers reaching for him.

“Grow strong, little one,” he said to her, with a tender smile.

The small boy had caught hold of Nauro’s long leg and jabbered loudly about nothing. With his large hands, Nauro pulled the child off, set him on the ground and ruffled his sandy blond hair.

“Stay safe,” he said.

The boy nodded his head with resolution, then sauntered away. Davin offered eternal service to all of them. His jaw dropped at the sight of a pouch filled with gold pieces.

“My lor— That is, Estel, I—I—I could never!” the farmer stammered.

“Please, it’s for your family,” Estel pleaded.

“We are alive,” Davin said, taking the anxious’ youth’s hand. “You all gave me my family. That is all I need in this life. You mustn’t trouble yourself with the weight of the world, my lord. Some things just can’t be mended.”

Estel had not been the same since seeing the destruction of the settlement. It was clear the image haunted him.

“Davin, I am not—”

“You’re as much a lord to me as any of the lot,” the farmer said, still clasping Estel’s hand. “There’s more nobility and wisdom in you than any king I reckon. And we need ample amounts of that in these dark days, and no mistake.”

Estel was not convinced.

 

Word of their deed quickly spread in the village before they could even leave. They had only just reached the edge of the town when a plump woman caught up with them and insisted they spend the night at her inn, no charge.

Bilbo, for one, was ecstatic at the thought of a bed, at least one more night.

Men fought over who would be the first to buy the strange company a drink. Very often their shoulders were roughly clapped, and if any of them so much as spoke a word of thank you, a roar of cheers would shake the inn. Every toast was made in their honor. Estel and Nauro’s hands were shaken so many times, their right hands throbbed. Thorin started shoving folk away, preferring to drink in peace than having one more drunkard throw an arm around his shoulders. Legolas received more than one proposal that evening (much to Estel’s utter delight). As for poor Bilbo, one large man had thought it fun to celebrate the Halfling’s bravery by picking him up and lifting him over his head. He was tossed like a sack of potatoes from one burly man to another, until Nauro caught him practically in mid-air and glared murderously at any one who came near him for the rest of the night.

Once the excitement died down, the weary company managed to enjoy some peace and quiet. But the absence of Estel’s usual cheeriness was felt, strongly. Bilbo tried some jokes to cheer him up, but he was the only one laughing awkwardly at the end of each. The Elf Prince, the Dwarf King and the tall man were somber enough any other night, but it was bearable because Estel was always willing to lighten the mood. This just wouldn’t do!

Bilbo chugged his last pint, slammed it on the table, startling his brooding company, and started singing.

_Hey! Ho! To the bottle I go!_

He looked expectantly to Estel, but the boy only half smiled and shook his head.

_To heal my heart and drown my woes!_

_The rain my fall! The wind may blow!_

_And there’ll still beeeee . . ._

A giggle escaped Estel’s lips, more so because his usual stuffy friend was making a fool of himself. The drunkards had finally left them alone, and here was Bilbo starting a song and drawing them back to their table.

_Many miles to go!_

And Bilbo stood on the bench, continuing his off-key song. At this point, all four (yes, even Thorin) were laughing under their breaths, and signaling Bilbo to sit back down. The other drunkards cheered the Halfing, and raised their cups to his attempts.

This was enough to reach Estel, and he jumped to his feet and approached Bilbo.

“No! Don’t pick me up!” Bilbo interrupted his song to sternly say.

“You started this, Halfling!” Estel declared happily and picked Bilbo up to set him on his shoulder, continuing the song.

_Sweet is the sound of the pouring rain,_

_And the stream that falls from hill to plain . . ._

Despite hating his position, it was worth it to see his young friend being silly again, so Bilbo went on. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Legolas’ face disappear into his palm. Thorin went on drinking, though his amusement could clearly be seen past the pint. Nauro on the other hand seemed more concerned with Estel’s dancing and Bilbo’s precarious position on his shoulder.

_But under a tall tree I will lie_

_And let the clouds go sailing by!_

_So Ho! Ho! Ho! To the bottle I go!_

_To heal my heart and drown my woes!_

_Better than rain or rippling brook_

_As a mug of beer inside this Took!_

At that final _Took!_ Estel shook Bilbo most undignified! It was after all a song that the Took family loved to sing, especially during the Old Took’s birthdays. Not that the drunkards and burly men knew what a Took was, but they cheered all the same and called for another song and another round.

“This will end in tears,” Legolas said in a resigned voice.

 

By the end of the evening, Bilbo and Estel had tried keeping up with the burly men of the inn in more than a couple drinking games. By the time the innkeeper closed up, Estel was still singing in a slurring voice and his body moving about like a hapless puppet whose strings have become tangled up. Bilbo had fallen sound asleep, his arms stretching to reach the table, and his head resting upon them.

It took both Legolas and Thorin to support Estel up the stairs. It would have been easier if Nauro had helped with the lanky drunk, but he had insisted on tending to his snoozing Hobbit.

They had set up in a single room, spacious enough for the three, though there were only two beds. One was mercifully given to Estel, who after collapsing onto it began snoring instantly. Legolas was willing to offer the second bed to Thorin, but as expected, the Dwarf King preferred the hard floor.

Nauro set Bilbo down on various blankets, and covered him with a few more. The Halfling mumbled softly, half opening his lids, smiling stupidly up at his friend, then fell back to sleep. Nauro smiled at this, until he felt eyes staring at his back.

Thorin was frozen in the middle of laying out his bedding on the hard floor, but for some reason was watching the tall man with a look of intense distrust.

It was a look that made Nauro feel like his hands were coated in inky black blood again.

 

Estel and Bilbo were, needless to say, miserable the next morning.

“Oooh, kill me now,” Bilbo whined holding his head, “remind me NEVER to drink that much again.”

“Serves you right trying to keep up with men three times your size,” Nauro said, smiling. He laughed loudly at Bilbo’s face when Myrtle started walking.

“I’m so glad my misery amuses you,” the Halfling grumbled. Every step the pony took, however soft a trot, felt like the heavy hooves were falling on his head instead of the path.

“So not fair,” Estel joined the whining fest, glaring at both Legolas and Thorin. “You both drank about as much as me. Why aren’t you in pain?!”

Both Elf and Dwarf scoffed, almost at the same time. They shared a knowing look, then edged their mounts further down the path leading to the edge of town.

The company was stopped once again, this time by an anxious pair of men.

“Forgive me, my most honorable lords,” the older of the two spoke, nervously fidgeting his hat in his hands. He went on to say that he and his family were in the cattle business, and had been for years. They were used to dealing with predators from the woods, wolves and bears and such. But a Warg pack had settled close to the fields, and for a little over a month they had attacked their livestock, savagely butchering the animals. The farmers had also lost some of their own, three farm hands who had attempted to protect the creatures and were mauled for their bravery.

This seemed to partly cure Estel’s headache, as he sat up straight on Nikerym’s back and looked to his traveling companions eagerly.

“What’s one more night?”

Thorin huffed audibly at that.

 

Bilbo huffed audibly at this.

They were gathered at the farm’s barn and Estel had laid out their plan of attack. Bilbo was less than thrilled.

“I don’t see why I should be left behind when I am perfectly capable of helping,” Bilbo said, crossing his arms and planting his feet apart.

“You’re not being left behind,” Legolas said, his voice betraying annoyance, “this task simply requires speed and strength.”

“And you’re saying I have neither!”

“Alright, then,” Estel said, tightening his belt and sheath, “grow another three or four feet and we’ll talk.”

“Nauro!” Bilbo turned to his friend for support. He was the only one of the four not preparing a weapon. He simply waited leisurely for the others, who were busy sharpening their blades, or in Legolas’ case re-stocking his arrows. Nauro shrugged at Bilbo, preferring he’d be far from the coming assault. Bilbo groaned angrily.

“Everyone clear on the plan?” Estel said. No answer was given, but Estel’s spirit remained undaunted. “Right then! Let’s get to it!”

Bilbo watched with a grimace as the four left for the field where the cattle grazed at night.

 

Legolas perched himself on a high tree, overlooking the entrance of the woods where they had found Warg prints. Nauro climbed up with him, watching every shifting shadow. Estel and Thorin had positioned themselves on opposite sides of the entrance, careful to keep upwind so as to prevent keen noses from catching their scent.

The foul creatures came when the moon was at its highest. Despite being twice as big as any normal wolf, and twice as large, they moved on light feet. Their terrible eyes glowed, and their terrible fangs glistened. Their snarls and growls rumbled deep in their throats, and thin streaks of drool betrayed their intent.

The plan was to destroy the entire pack. Then again, they had not counted on it being such a large pack. Estel counted fifteen in all. Fifteen monstrous creatures headed straight for the cattle.

The first attack would have to be quick.

Estel shifted his blade so it would catch the moon’s light, signaling Thorin. Once the last of the Wargs had made their way out of the woods, the two leapt out of their hiding places. Two swords swung freely, severing and stabbing at the monsters. Two fell, as the remaining thirteen bolted; some in the direction of the woods, others towards the swordsmen. Those were struck down by a rain of arrows, and one had a tall creature land on its back, long arms wrapping mercilessly around its neck.

Five fell, with arrows in their eyes or embedded in their thick skulls. It wasn’t till Estel was bowled over by a particularly vicious beast that Legolas leapt from his perch. The giant Warg almost fell on top of Estel, three arrows sticking out of its neck. Thorin used his height to his advantage, severing their legs, bringing them down before delivering the final blow. Nauro, weaponless, instead used his vast strength to snap their necks, after taking a bit of a crazed ride on their arching backs.

Without the rain of arrows, some were able to escape. The more vengeful ones hung around, aching for a fight. One of those stalked Thorin, and while he was distracted finishing off one beast, it pounced.

It could have been the end of the Dwarf King, had not a heavy rock flown and struck the side of the monster’s head. Once it recovered from the blow, the creature looked about, along with the confused Dwarf. Another rock flew, this time blinding the Warg’s left eye. Enraged, it started for the direction of the rocks. There was no one there.

It wasn’t the only victim of the flying rocks. Every rock was well aimed and struck true, cracking lower jaws, leaving them dazed or blinding their eyes. The four looked about, expecting to see one of the farm hands aiding them from the safety of the wooden fences. No one saw a thing.

The last Wag standing looked like it had lost its mind. It ran about snarling, mouth gaping wide, and snapping at the air. Nauro caught hold of the monster’s lunging head and using his entire body, snapped its neck. The heavy body fell dead. Exhausted, and nursing a few injuries, the four caught their breath.

The farmers, who had watched the battle from a safe distance, came to aid them in gathering the monstrous bodies. A large fire burned brightly that night, ending the foul creatures’ reign of terror upon the farmers’ lives.

When the four returned to the barn, Bilbo was laying on a large pile of hay. Despite his restful pose, he was pale and out of breath—naturally, after racing to beat the others back to the barn.

“Ah, you’re back!” he said, in a forced casual tone. “All dead then?”

The four stared at him, suspicious.

“Good arm, Bilbo,” Legolas said off handedly, then led Estel to a seat in order to tend to a nasty gash on his hand.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Bilbo shrugged and stood up, a rather large rock falling out of his coat pocket. He—not quickly enough—kicked it out of sight.

He caught Nauro’s conspiratorial grin and returned it. Perhaps just this once, his friend would not lecture him on using the magic ring.

Thorin stomped his way to Bilbo, and suddenly grabbed hold of his coat. “What were you thinking?! You could have gotten yourself killed!”

“Th-Thorin—”

“Why can’t you once just DO as you’re told!” and the Dwarf King shook him. Old fears seized Bilbo, and he could not help but be startled at Thorin’s sudden outburst.

A long pale hand latched itself around Thorin’s wrist, and he looked up to see Nauro’s seething face. With a frustrated deep breath, he let go of Bilbo’s coat, keeping his eyes on Nauro. Once he’d taken a step back from the Hobbit, his wrist was released, and he walked away.

 


	24. Dwarves Are Not Known for Their Patience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After seeing how unprotected the people are, Estel continues to offer aid to any who ask, delaying the quest more and more. And Thorin's patience is wearing thin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, working as a teacher for high school kids I have realized the importance of tagging things, so I guess I should warn that there is a KIDNAPPING in the coming chapters. It's not graphic or violent, it's just kind of standard harmless fantasy kidnapping. Just a heads up!

 

Chapter 24: Dwarves Are Not Known for Their Patience

 

The mountains loomed against a deep blue sky. At the feet of the mountains spread thick woodlands, and in the wee small hours of the morning, the woods were peaceful. A soft breeze made the leaves sing in a gentle whisper. Insects sang their nightly songs, and owls would add their own lyrics with hoots and whistles. The autumn weather was perfectly cool, no winter wind yet in sight. It was a perfectly peaceful calm and quiet night in the woodlands.

At least, until two figures raced out of the woods, pursued closely by an enraged cave troll.

“Remind me!” Nauro called out, running fast. “How was this a good plan?”

“What? Getting tired?” Estel called back, trying to keep pace with the other’s longer legs.

“I believe the exact words were . . .” pausing to leap over a log “run till dawn?! You do know cave trolls don’t turn to stone like mountain trolls!”

“Cave trolls are bred in the dark! Their eyes are useless in the morning light!” Pause to try and catch his breath, dodging a few lower branches. “Problem?”

“Not for me! All I have to do is outrun you!”

The banter was cut short by a tree that fell but a few feet in front of them. The two barely stopped in time to keep from running into it. The damned troll was actually uprooting trees in his path and throwing them! Longer legs were put to good use as Nauro went around the thrown tree and sped further away. Estel was only just around the tree when the troll burst through, growling loudly.

“Seriously, how WAS this a good plan?!” Estel mumbled to himself as he picked up the pace.

Flying bits of woods, branches, stones—and other flung trees— continued to rain down on him. The troll was done tossing and started making a grab at him. It’s quite possible the lout would have succeeded too, if the small aggravating figure hadn’t suddenly disappeared.

Just as Estel marveled at how long the sun was taking its precious time in rising—and how much he was going to kill Nauro for actually outrunning him—something seized his shoulders and with great strength lifted him into the trees above. The stupid monster crashed on past them.

“You actually left me behind!” Estel gasped at Nauro, once he’d grabbed better hold of the branches.

“You should have run faster,” Nauro grinned and watched the blundering creature run right into his trap.

A fierce blast of light was thrown at the creature, effectively blinding it while the lithe archer got close enough to shoot the final arrow, straight into its open mouth. The arrow pierced through the roof of its mouth and into the creature’s brain, killing it instantly.

Nauro leapt from his perch and landed smoothly on the ground. Estel’s descent was far less graceful.

“That was quick thinking with the flash flame, Thorin!” Bilbo said, happily emerging from behind a tree.

“We’ve wasted enough of our time with this,” the Dwarf said with disdain, kicking at the troll’s lifeless hand.

“Well, good work, team,” Estel said, still out of breath. “He won’t be eating any more merchants any time soon. The main road will be safe.”

“For now.”

“Excuse me?”

Thorin turned, visibly annoyed. Dwarves are not known for their patience, and Thorin’s was all but spent.

“How long have we been at this? Solving every other farmer’s sob story? Tackling any village’s problem? And how long until another one of these decides to crawl out of their hole and wreak havoc? Do you intend we keep this up till the end of time?!”

Bilbo shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Estel who was still recovering from his exertion.

“What matters is that we are here now, and we can help,” he said with grim determination.

“And when does it end?” Thorin said, sheathing his sword. “It’s taken us twice the time to reach the Mountains!”

“Would you rather we’ve done nothing?!” Estel straightened up and looked Thorin in the eye.

“We’re close enough to the High Pass,” the Dwarf King went on, looking off to the mountains looming overhead. “We can still use it to cross over.”

“If you think we’ve run into enough trouble here, it is nothing compared to what awaits on the other side,” Legolas chimed in. “There is a difference between taking on an orc pack or two and taking on entire squadrons.”

“Some of us cannot afford the luxury of time. I have a throne to return to! This is taking too long,” Thorin spoke the last under his breath, then proceeded to stomp off in the direction of their campsite. Bilbo watched him leave.

 

The camp was quiet that night, since everyone was far too tired to do much of anything. Thorin had wandered off on his own, though Bilbo could still see him at a distance, through the thick foliage. When he decided to go talk to him, Nauro initially moved to follow. But Bilbo looked sharply at him, and Nauro clearly read _Not this time_.

Thorin was still visibly put off, staring off into the night, his jaw grinding. He could hear Bilbo approaching, but he did not turn to acknowledge his presence.

“Estel is . . . young,” Bilbo started tentatively, taking a few just as tentative steps forward. “He’s lived a sheltered life. Thinks he can fix the world, and overnight! And you should trust Legolas. He’s only trying to keep us on a safer route—”

“This is my task and you said you would help me!” Thorin snapped, rising from his seat. He had still not looked at Bilbo, but rather started pacing about, his heavy boots denting the forest ground. Bilbo stayed quiet. “I left my kingdom in Fili’s hands, to honor my father’s suffering. To recover what was stolen from my house!”

He suddenly stopped himself, and passed his hand over his face. Once his breathing calmed, he finally turned to look at Bilbo.

“The work we’ve done is honorable,” he said, his voice calm and slow. “I will not deny this. We have helped many in need. If they wish to continue, then they have my respect. They can keep playing guardians of Middle Earth for as long as they like. We can travel faster with just two.”

Bilbo heaved a deep sigh. “Thorin . . . they left their lives behind as well to come on this journey—”

“For you,” Thorin emphasized. Bilbo could not argue with that. “If you were to tell them you do not need their aid . . .”

“You think that will work!” Bilbo scoffed.

“Have they so little faith in you?” the Dwarf pressed, though Bilbo knew he was simply trying to sway him against their company.

“No, they’re just—protective,” Bilbo countered, calmly.

The two stood there, for a moment. An owl fluttered heavily overhead, and its piercing shriek startled Bilbo out of his thoughts.

“I won’t leave them behind, not now,” he said resolutely, hating the deep look of disappointment on Thorin’s face.

“I understand,” the King spoke slowly. Then he turned and walked further away from the camp. Bilbo did not follow.

 

The next day dawned grey and dreary. Thick clouds filled the sky, and made no sign of moving. The strange company went on in silence, though Thorin purposely stalled his mount, away from the others. Bilbo kept looking back, but he made no effort to try to talk to him again.

Even when they stopped to rest that evening, Thorin did not join them.

“What’s got King Under the Weather down?” Estel asked when Bilbo passed him his plate, as they sat around the fire. Through the trees they could see Thorin’s own small campfire, several feet away.

“He’s concerned we’re taking too long,” he answered, preparing his own bowl next.

Estel only scoffed, while Legolas raised his eyebrows. “The road is long. He can hardly blame us for that.”

Bilbo sat next to Nauro, picked up the bowl of food the tall man had tried to hide behind the log they were sitting on, and placed it back on his lap.

“Not hungry,” Nauro grumbled, about to return the bowl to its hiding place.

“And yet you’re still eating it,” Bilbo said taking it back and setting it again on his lap, earning a sneer from Nauro, an amused smirk from Legolas and a throaty laugh from Estel.

They ate in good spirits, and when they were finished they shared songs, laughs and stories. For a moment, it almost felt like they were merely camping on the outskirts of Rivendell than several leagues away.

“This is ridiculous,” Bilbo said determined and jumped to his feet.

“Where are you going?” Estel asked.

“I don’t care what he says,” he answered, pointing at the separate camp fire, “I’m dragging that pig-headed Dwarf here or so help me—”

Nauro suddenly grabbed his arm. “Wait.”

The others froze at this. The pale man was tense, his eyes lost and focused. A chilled breeze struck at them, and Legolas’ keen ears heard what had caught his attention.

“They’re coming!” he said, leaping into attack mode. Estel followed suit, in time to see Thorin come crashing through the woods, Orcrist gleaming blue in his hand.

“From the left!” he said gruffly.

The sounds of the scuttling orcs invaded the peace of the night, and it was coming closer. The warriors spread out, weapons at the ready, protecting their site. Even Bilbo had moved to retrieve Sting from his pack, but was stopped by Nauro. Not roughly, his hold was actually gentle, and his face pleading.

“Stay close,” he said, and Bilbo did.

The attack came strong and unexpected. The cursed creatures had spread out too, and planned their onslaught from all sides. There were easily four or five orcs to each of them, including Bilbo.

Then the fire went out, and there was chaos.

Orcs are born and bred in darkness, and their nocturnal eyes glowed pale green. This was their domain. The others were all but blind. Except for Nauro and Thorin.

The Dwarf lord too had been born and raised in the dark of mountain halls, and his sight was keener even in complete darkness. The light of his sword created temporary flashes of light for himself and his fellow fighters. For Nauro, his strange sight permitted him perfect night vision. Well enough to protect the blind Hobbit from several orcs. In fact, he was grateful the Hobbit could not see him catch every orc coming at them and snapping every bone within his grasp.

Bilbo could hardly see anything in front of him, but after feeling around he got his bearings. Careful not to trip over the log he and Nauro had been sitting on, he tried to remember the way back to the mounts. Eager to retrieve Sting and help in the fight, he bolted towards the sounds of the anxious animals.

He knew he had reached them when he was nearly trod on by Nikerym. The others were straining against the reins that bound them to the tree. It took a moment to find Myrtle purely through touch, and it took longer to calm her down long enough to feel for his pack and find his sword. His fingers had only just found the cold grip of Sting’s hilt when he was grabbed from behind.

A large hand clamped over his mouth, instantly stopping his cry of surprise, and a bone crushing hold around his chest started dragging him deeper into the woods.

Bilbo desperately struggled, pulling at the hand gagging him, trying to shake it off. But his muffled sounds were lost in the midst of the orcs jeers and battle shrieks, the horses and ponies own sounds of distress, and the fierce clash of iron and steel.

Captured by orcs! Nauro was never going to let him hear the end of this one. He could already hear his lectures, and Legolas and Estel would surely make him stay out of future fights. No, he had to find his own way out this! Perhaps if he could just reach his ring and vanish, his captor will be confused enough to let go.

Unfortunately, the ring was in his inner coat pocket, which was currently trapped under the arm holding him.

Light suddenly flooded his vision. The fire from Thorin’s separate camp! The cursed orc hadn’t taken him far then. Now if he could just get free—

Gathering his strength, he threw out his elbow, shoving hard into his attacker’s ribs. Only the resulting grunt of pain did not sound like an orc.

Despite the strong grip over his mouth, Bilbo was able to turn his head. The fire’s weak light revealed instead a familiar—yet completely unexpected—face.

“ _Fwowryn?!_ ” is what came out, though he was trying to say “Thorin?!”

The small fire was stomped out, plunging them both back into darkness. Thorin’s hold tightened and continued to drag him away.

“ _Fwowryn! Red gwo!_ ” Bilbo kept trying to speak past Thorin’s gloved hand (translation being: “Thorin! Let go!”).

The hand came off, but Bilbo scarcely had time to take in a breath when something went over his head. He fell to the ground, and quickly realized he’d just been shoved into a sack.

 _You’ve got to be joking!_ was all he could think when he felt the burlap sack close in around him. The opening was tied together, and the sack was picked up and thrown over the back of Thorin’s pony.

Kicking and struggling was useless, and Bilbo truly started to panic as the pony went into a fast pace, bearing them both farther and farther away.

“Thorin! What do you think you’re doing?! Stop this! Let me out!”

Bilbo continued to yell, but it all fell on deaf ears. At a loss, there was only one word Bilbo could think of crying out before the sounds of the fight faded completely.

_“NAURO!!!”_

 


	25. Taken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The company chases after the rogue Dwarf.

 

Chapter 25: Taken

 

“Bilbo . . .”

Nauro froze.

He was sure he’d heard his name. His eyes looked about and with dread, he realized Bilbo was nowhere in sight.

The last of the orcs fell to Estel’s blade. “Everyone alright?” the weary youth called out, catching his breath. “We need light!”

Legolas caught hold of a thick stick and quickly improvised a torch, making use of the embers from their ruined campfire. He held the torch aloft and lit up the clearing. Orc bodies were strewn about, and the mounts were settling down from their fright. The greater amount of bodies however were at Nauro’s feet. The pale man was quite a sight. His hands bathed in black blood, his face wild and with an almost sickly hue. His eyes wild and looking about, as if searching for his next attacker.

“Where is Bilbo?” he said breathless.

“Nauro, did you—do all this?” Estel said, shocked at the sight of the piled corpses, all with their heads practically twisted round.

“WHERE IS BILBO?!” the wild man shouted, still looking about frantically.

They looked around them, but there was no sight of the Hobbit. Nor of their fifth man.

“Where is Oakenshield?” Legolas asked, his voice betraying all their suspicions.

Nauro bolted towards the second campsite, his speed once again sending the mounts into an uneasy frenzy. Legolas and Estel ran after him.

They found the other site abandoned, the small fire destroyed and no sign of any packs, the pony, or their missing companions.

“There—” Legolas stammered, “there must have been more orcs hiding here. They took them both.”

“Did they . . .” Nauro answered darkly, it was a question that sounded far too much like a statement. In an eerie move that reminded Legolas of a serpent, Nauro fell to his hands and knees, letting his head hover over the trampled ground. His body was still tense and shaking from adrenaline. “Why would they take only Oakenshield’s pony, and all his belongings?”

“You can’t think—” Legolas started.

Estel took the torch from Legolas and examined the ground around them. “There was a struggle, but no orc prints,” he said gravely.

That was the only confirmation Nauro needed, and in an instant he had vanished into the dark of the woods.

“Nauro! Wait!”

“Let’s get the mounts!” Legolas said, pulling Estel back to their camp.

 

The voice in the dark screamed and roared, but Nauro didn’t hear it. Something beat in his head. A violent thump-thump-thumping in his ears as he sped through the woods. Branches and brambles tore at him, scratching and tearing at his kin. One tree after another came in his path, and he dodged and shoved past them all. _wherewherewherewherewhere_ echoed in his mind, drowning out the voice, like a manic chant. His unnatural eyes pierced the darkness. He was going too fast. The air around him too thin. His breath couldn’t keep up with his pace. Suddenly an elk was in his path. He stopped suddenly and his vision swam.

Catching his breath, Legolas astride his mount was looking down at him.

“Easy, my friend!”

Several hooves were heard from behind, and Estel came riding in, somehow managing to pull Eleni and Myrtle along. “Nauro, listen! He can’t have much of a head start. He’s on a weary pony carrying double the weight. We’ll catch them faster if we ride.”

_Pathetic weak body . . ._

Still heaving, his lungs aching for air, the voice taunting him, Nauro agreed. Leaping onto Eleni’s back, he urged her forward at the speed his weak legs could not bear.

“Nauro! The tracks lead THIS way!”

 

Despite their larger and faster rides, the trail seemed never ending. Nauro did not let up, staying well ahead of the others, redirecting Eleni based on Estel’s directions. The young man leaned over his steed, keeping his torch as close to the ground as he could reach, keeping sight of the pony tracks.

It was well into the night, when the sky was only slightly starting to shift its colors, that the tracks pulled a sharp turn, heading north. The mountains loomed closer to their right, blocking out half of the night sky. It was here that Nauro pulled Eleni to a stop.

“What is it?” Estel asked, thinking he’d seen something, but the tracks could still be seen far ahead. Nauro stared at the mountains, his keen eyes almost glinting in the dark.

“He wanted to reach the High Pass,” he spoke in a low voice, his eyes fixed on a clear path that lead into the very mountainside.

“If he were to try to reach the Pass,” Legolas said once he’d caught up, “this would be the nearest place to climb.”

“No!” Estel pressed, leaping down from the saddle. “Look at the tracks. Zirak always stepped heavily, but the tracks from the campsite have a heavier indent. The weight hasn’t shifted at all.”

But Nauro had already flung himself from Eleni’s back and was scrambling up the steep and narrow path.

“Listen to me!” Estel took a step forward, holding up his torch towards Nauro. “What if this is what he wants us to think! He knew we would expect him to climb. He even tried to wipe out the tracks. Right here! See!” And he lowered the light to the ground. Indeed there was a futile attempt at clearing the trail. Nauro sneered, then went on climbing.

“Nauro! Trust me! We have to follow the tracks!”

The tall figure had scrambled high enough that the torch’s lights couldn’t reach him. Even so, both Estel and Legolas could see that he had stopped. He was hesitating. A deep sigh rumbled across the mountainside, and he turned to climb back down. His clothes were a bit torn, and a normal human’s hands would have been scraped from the effort he made at climbing up the path. His, however, were still intact.

“Let’s go,” his voice rumbled dangerously.

 

Morning dawned, slow, pale and clammy. The three rode on. Nauro was still far ahead, his entire pose bent forward, as if it was his will that drove the creature on.

“I’d hate to be in Oakenshield’s boots when Nauro catches up to him,” Estel said, shaking the drowsiness from his eyes.

“How is he still ahead of us?” Legolas asked, not showing an inkling of exhaustion.

“The unknown power of Dwarf ponies, I don’t know!”

“You are sure about this?”

“Have you ever known a better tracker?” Estel said with a smirk. Legolas had in fact, but he would not deny Estel’s uncanny accuracy when it came to tracking.

“I do not know why he’s so upset,” Legolas added, nodding towards Nauro’s distant figure. “It’s not like Oakenshield intends to harm Bilbo. And the cursed pony won’t be able to outrun us forever.”

“You’ve known them longer than I have,” Estel said, shaking his head vigorously once again, and stifling a jaw cracking yawn. “Have you ever seen them apart for more than a few hours at a time?”

Legolas had no answer to that.

 

It was still early morning when the aforementioned cursed pony was finally spotted. He was grazing at the reeds around a shallow pond. There was no sign of either of his riders.

Nauro pushed Eleni one final time, breaking into an even faster trod towards the clearing. The other two followed. The war horse was strong and had been bred to endure long treks, but even she was rasping. And regardless of her rider’s directions, she still went straight for the cool water of the thin pond. Nauro jumped off and raced to the black pony on the other side. The creature moved away from him startled.

“Bilbo!” Nauro called out, looking around frantically.

The other two let their exhausted mounts drink and eat. Estel looked around confused, while Legolas went to tend to the frightened pony.

“I don’t—I don’t understand,” Estel said softly, realizing too neither Hobbit nor Dwarf were there.

Legolas examined the packs strapped to the pony’s back. They were both filled with heavy rocks and sand. He let a handful of the stuff fall from his hand, before tossing the rest of it with frustration. Estel was already pale from the lack of sleep, but all lingering color drained from his face at the sight.

“That—BASTARD!” Estel cried out, kicking at the brush. “He knew! He saw me track! He knew I’d follow the tracks!”

“It can’t be helped, we were all deceived,” Legolas said, his calm voice contradicting the scowl on his face. Even the Elf Prince’s seemingly unwavering patience was wavering. “Oakenshield must have used one of the mountain paths to reach the High Pass, sent his pony on to take us off the scent.”

“That—bloody—Dwarf—I—” Estel was fuming, stumbling over his words. “Nauro, don’t worry, you won’t have to kill him! When we catch up to them, I’ll be the one to—”

Looking up, he faltered at the sight of Nauro trembling with rage. His face was hidden from them, but the sheer wrath coursing through his being was practically palpable.

“Nauro, I—” Estel spoke, guilt weighing his words. “I’m so sorry, I really thought—”

Within the blink of an eye, a tree that once stood tall and proud for many years was nearly bowled over. Nauro’s fists flew with savagery, and his arm was practically impaled into the thick trunk.

Estel took a step back. For the first time since he’d known the man, he was afraid. Legolas kept his distance, as one would a wild animal. Nauro took his arm back, his fist bleeding and shaking even more violently. Seeing the blood on his hand, and the destruction it had caused, seemed to stop his rage. His entire body still shook, and his breathing rasped.

“It’s not your fault,” he said, his voice tight and strained. “Not your fault . . .” he whispered again, as if trying to convince himself. Estel stood frozen, unsure of his friend’s actions. It was Legolas who made the first move.

“Let me see that,” he spoke softly. Nauro offered his wounded hand like a petulant child, but he still allowed it to be treated. Or at least bandaged.

“So what now?” he asked, his voice still deep and dangerous.

“We’ve passed a number of paths they could have taken into the mountain. It may take time to backtrack and find the right one,” Legolas finished bandaging the hand.

“No,” Estel finally spoke, though still a little uncertain. “It was the very first path. Those blurred tracks. He wasn’t sloppy in wiping the pony’s prints. He was clearing their prints on their way to the trail in the mountainside. I could not see any of their tracks on sheer rock.”

Nauro practically growled. “It will take too long to go back and find that path again!”

“Not necessarily,” Legolas said. “We know where they’re going. We could simply take a different path up the mountain and make for the High Pass. If we are swift, we can intercept them before they reach the lower valley.”

“However,” he went on, “our mounts will not be able to trek the mountain paths. They are far too steep and narrow. We will have to go on foot, and that will slow us down.”

“What about our mounts? We can hardly abandon them!” Estel exclaimed.

“They will follow Bitsy back to Rivendell, I will make sure of it,” the Elf prince spoke, his hand stroking the long neck of his faithful elk. “Once we’ve found Bilbo we can procure other means of transportation.”

Estel was not convinced, but he didn’t dare speak out against the plan. Nauro’s face was lined with determination, and he was already looking to the mountains.

So with a heavy heart, they relieved the five creatures, even Zirak, of their packs and saddles. This would ensure a swift journey back. Midmorning had passed by the time they were finished, and the animals had eaten and drank to their heart’s content. They had rested from the night’s long run, and Legolas believed it would be better if they started out early in the day. He drew his arms around Bitsy’s long neck, then whispered Elvish into her ear. Estel could not hear what was said, but he knew the bond Elves shared with all living creatures. And very much like a reluctant soldier carrying out an order, Bitsy trod over to her fellow animals and seemed to beckon them to her side. Then she ran into the woods at a gentle pace, with Eleni, Myrtle and Zirak following her.

Nykerim was the last, since he was still being held back by Estel. The youth clutched the horse’s head in his arms, and was nuzzled affectionately in return. He let go with tears in his eyes, worried he would not find his friend again.

“Do not fear for them,” Legolas said, placing a comforting hand on Estel’s shoulder, while they watched the five animals vanish into the thick woods. “They will not stray.”

It was a shame to forsake the saddles, since four of them were of fine making from Rivendell’s finest craftsmen. They distributed the provisions and water among their own packs, then set out to find a path that would take them up the mountains. Nauro did not wait for them, and once he had found a path, he scrambled up at an unnatural speed. Legolas could have easily caught up with him, and keep up with his frantic pace, but he would not leave Estel behind. He set himself to his young friend’s speed, and shouldering their heavy packs, they made their way up the mountainside.

 

While Legolas was certain Bitsy would follow his command, he greatly underestimated the creature’s loyalty. Once the three had begun their ascent, she had led her fellow mounts back to the foot of the mountainside. She cautiously tested her footing on the rising path, but quickly realized it was no use. The other creatures shared in her distress, pacing uneasily back and forth, sensing their masters’ vanishing presences. With one last calculated look at the high mountains, she led her company south.

Just as their riders sought an easier path up, they would have to do the same.

 

His wounded fist throbbed, and blood soaked up the bandage. He didn’t care. The stones were merciless on his hands, and his fancy Elven clothes were ripped and torn. He didn’t care. For once, Nauro’s own voice drowned out the voice in the dark, with his manic chanting.

_Climbclimbclimbwherewhereclimbupupuphighclimb!_

_Where? Where? Where?_

_Where are you!_

 


	26. Kidnapped!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo and Thorin need some alone time . . . whether they like it or not!

 

Chapter 26: Kidnapped!

 

While Estel was bent low to the ground, his torch lighting the wiped out tracks, trying to convince Nauro to trust him, someone was watching.

Thorin was well concealed. His cloak and hood hid him under cover of darkness, and he lay flat on the rocks. He was perched on a rocky shelf overlooking the foot of the mountain. He’d climbed high enough so he couldn’t hear what was spoken below, but it was clear Estel was falling for the fake tracks. Now the question was whether the others would be deceived as well.

The pale man had started scrambling up the path, and Thorin held his breath. The man—if man he was—had uncanny senses. If he should climb any higher, he would surely be able to find them. But as he had come to know in the past weeks, the youth was persistent. Somehow he had managed to convince the pale man to follow the false trail, and the three figures rode off into the night.

Thorin did not move until the sounds of hooves faded away completely, and the night air bristled with the songs of crickets and rustling leaves. Stopping to fill the packs with sand and rocks was worth the time. Thorin had observed the youth over the last few weeks, and how much he relied on his instincts as a hunter rather than a warrior. As long as Zirak’s tracks still looked like they bore the same weight as before, he would follow them. And the others would follow him.

It would still be better to wait till morning’s light to move on, he thought to himself.

Slowly, and carefully, he retraced his steps. He had brought no light, in order to stay hidden. Though his eyes were keen in the dark, the ledge he balanced on was treacherous, and some of the rocks were loose and cracked under his feet.

Eventually his hand found the cold draft from an opening in the mountainside, and he went in. He knew well enough there was an underground labyrinth of caves within the mountain range. The small crevice he’d found could hardly be called a cave, but rather one of the many hallways that ran parallel to the mountainside and would run deeper into subterranean caverns. He had not risked making a fire since the smoke would draw attention, but he’d left a small torch lodged between rocks lining the wall.

The space he’d claimed was small enough that the struggling light was able to fill it. Close to the improvised torch, he’d left the one pack he’d kept from Zirak—which included what few provisions and tools he could carry.

And close to the pack was one pretty pissed Hobbit.

 

The bonds around his wrists and feet were not tight, but they’d been done up in such a way it was impossible to wriggle out of. The ring was still trapped in his inner coat pocket, more so by extra rope going around his chest and pinning his upper arms to his sides. Then again, even if he could reach his ring, it wouldn’t be much use being invisible and not being able to move an inch. His wrists were bound in front of him, and despite struggling and pulling this way and that, he could not slip out of the bindings.

After being let out of the sack, Bilbo was outraged and demanded answers. But Thorin wouldn’t speak a word, and instead dragged him to a bloody cave and started tying him up! Bilbo had fought back, but was inevitably overpowered. He’d gotten in a few blows—a kick to the jaw that was visibly bruising—and quite a few choice words Bilbo was not particularly proud of. The Dwarf King had been unfazed, and left Bilbo bound and gagged in the dark cavern with only a small torch.

When Thorin returned, Bilbo was still pulling at his bonds and welcomed the Dwarf with a murderous glare.

The Dwarf took his time approaching the Hobbit. His penetrating gaze was intent upon Bilbo’s, though this time the Halfling stared back, challenging. He took a purposely slow step forwards and pulled the rag down from over Bilbo’s mouth.

“HAVE YOU LOST YOUR BLOODY MI—UMPH!”

Bilbo’s outrage was stifled once more by a heavily gloved hand.

“Quiet,” the deep voice rumbled low.

Bilbo nodded, and the hand came off.

“Have you lost your BLOODY mind?!” he hissed instead. “What do you think you’re doing?!”

“I told you,” Thorin continued to speak in a low voice, moving slowly to the other side of the small space, “we would move faster with just two.”

Bilbo gaped. “And I told you I was not leaving the others! Is this your brilliant idea of a compromise?!”

“Keep your voice down.”

“Keep my voi—Thorin! Untie me!”

Thorin sat down, leaning against the other side of the cavern. He settled as much as he could, given the hard rocks around him. He made no move to comply. Bilbo sighed exasperated, letting his head fall backwards, till it bumped against the wall behind him.

“I can’t believe this,” he said more to himself, then looked back to Thorin. “I know what this means to you, Thorin. And I had every intention of helping you recover your father’s ring, despite what the others said. Every time they told me you could not be trusted, I defended you! And what do you do! You must know Nauro is likely to kill you for this! When they catch up—”

“They won’t,” Thorin responded calmly, “not for some time.”

Bilbo shifted uncomfortably. “What did you do?” he asked, an uneasy feeling settling in his stomach.

“Bought us some time, enough for a head start at least,” was all he would say, and he leaned his head back against the wall, shutting his eyes.

Bilbo had trouble believing how calm Thorin was about the whole matter. In fact, it was the calmest he’d seen him since Rivendell. What was he thinking?!

“Allright, let’s try to be reasonable,” Bilbo said, emphasizing the word _try_ a little too heavily. “Just untie me and we can discuss this like civilized people.”

“Do you really think once we reached the gates of Angmar, they would have simply let you go in?” Thorin spoke, keeping his eyes closed. At first Bilbo wasn’t entirely sure who Thorin meant by “they,” but then he realized he was talking about their three traveling companions. He could not deny that he had thought of that little issue. Even with his ring, Nauro would not have let him go alone into such dangerous territory.

“This task always required secrecy and stealth. _Your_ stealth,” Thorin went on, this time opening his eyes and looking right at Bilbo. “How can you do anything when they barely let you out of their sights! At the final hour, they would have swayed you and come up with some other foolhardy plan that never would have worked.”

Bilbo was about to protest, but Thorin had not finished. As he spoke, he sat up, away from the wall, his eyes becoming more and more intent. “You walked into a Dragon’s den unseen, and walked out alive.”

“Barely,” Bilbo mumbled.

“They do not see what you are capable of. I do. I’ve seen it firsthand. How many times did you help the company through no other means but your own skills and strength.”

Bilbo was surprised to hear Thorin praise him, but it was a little difficult to take it in given the present situation. “Well, this would all be rather encouraging if I wasn’t tied up!”

“Those three, they would coddle you, shield you from a strong gust of wind.”

“Legolas has been to Angmar,” Bilbo interrupted. “He knows there are orcs, and other evil things lurking about. Yes, we might have been stealthy but Gandalf himself said he would never go against the Necromancer alone! There’s no other way around this. We need all the help we can get!”

“I do not intend to go against an entire army of orcs!” Thorin snapped, suddenly rising to his feet. “Or even this human sorcerer. I am not blind! My task is to recover what is rightfully mine. The Necromancer will know justice soon enough.”

Bilbo did not like the sound of that. “What does that mean?”

Thorin faltered in his response. His look of grim determination suddenly shifted into one of grief.

“What they did to my father— I can hardly sleep at night, not without wondering . . . if I had just kept looking. If I had just . . .”

The pain in his voice slowed his words, and Bilbo wanted nothing more than ease that pain. But he could hardly do anything in this position.

“Thorin,” he said in as calm a voice as he could muster, “we cannot do this alone. I will not go anywhere without them.”

The moment of grief was gone. Thorin straightened up and started walking away.

“Not your choice,” he said offhandedly.

This was the last straw and Bilbo’s sympathy flew out the window—or rather out the cave opening. “Oh, and you intend to carry me all the way to Angmar in a sack!”

“If I have to!” Thorin turned back to him.

“You’d resort to this rather than trust others!”

“If the others include the spawn of one who knows no honor—”

“Legolas is not his father!” Bilbo started to raise his voice.

“A human brat and that— _thing_.”

“Thing?! You mean Nauro, who is human!”

“Is he?” Thorin suddenly lowered his voice, catching Bilbo’s attention. “Balin told me enough. He overheard the two wizards talking one night, at the camp in Dale. It’s not human.”

The last phrase was spoken with such derision, but also such certainty that Bilbo was left with no words.

“Surely, even you can see that,” Thorin was no longer insulting. His tone was honest. “The eyes, the way it looks at everything. Even the way it moves, as if its’ very body was foreign to him. Gandalf only wanted it near so he could keep an eye on it.”

“Th—that’s not true! He would have told me—”

“And have you stop playing nurse maid? You of all people should know how comfortable the wizard feels leaving the heavy lifting to others, while he sits back and watches his own mess unfold.”

“That’s not true . . .”

He couldn’t help but think of all the words he had used to describe his friend, from the moment they met.

Strange. Other-worldly. Eerie. Unnatural, even.

As much as he acted almost animalistic, he could also be painfully human. Bilbo could never believe he wasn’t human. Nauro felt more than any other being Bilbo had come across. Who could ever believe he wasn’t actually . . .

Doubt clouded his thoughts. Did Gandalf agree with Thorin? Or rather is it true that Gandalf told everyone—except Bilbo—about Nauro? But why? The Elves at Rivendell did treat Nauro differently, but never cruel. Elrond kept his distance, it’s true. Did Gandalf tell him? Legolas was silent, but he regarded Nauro as a friend. And Arwen and Estel were always kind to him . . .

_A human brat…_

Was that what Thorin had called his young friend with such contempt?

The utter helplessness of the moment caught up with Bilbo, and being forced to listen to such lies and insults towards those he cared for was too much. Words continued to elude him, and instead a cold shiver seized him and he shook with complete rage.

“You think yourself better than them,” Bilbo started, letting his rage speak for him. “Why? Did taking the throne set you above the entire world?”

Thorin scoffed and made to move away.

“Tell me, what is it about Estel that bothers you?” Bilbo went on. “Is it because Elrond took him in? Raised him, loves him as he would his own child, when you can’t even do that for your own kin!”

SLAM!

The fist collided with the cave wall, inches from Bilbo’s face. He’d shut his eyes as he flinched. When he looked again, Thorin towered over him, his fist still on the wall and his face hovering over Bilbo’s. His breathing was slow and heavy, his nostrils flaring and his eyes practically flashing.

If it was Bilbo’s intention to make him mad, he had succeeded.

“For the last time . . .” Thorin spoke in a low threatening voice, “you will not mention him to me again.”

Normally, Bilbo would have been terrified. Instead, he smiled; a mocking knowing smile that he could not stop.

“I wasn’t just talking about Kili.”

At the sound of that name, Thorin looked like he was about to throw another punch. And that one would meet its mark. But Bilbo’s true meaning seemed to stay his anger, and the fierce glint in his eyes died down.

He pulled away from the wall roughly, grunting as he moved. He turned his back on the Hobbit, and for a moment stayed perfectly still, just breathing in and out. Bilbo was practically shaking with adrenaline, and thinking he’d rather face down the Wargs armed with nothing but rocks than find himself in that position again.

“Might as well get some sleep. We move at first light.”

And with those final words, the Dwarf King walked further down the cavern. Bilbo knew he would get no more out of him. With one final stubborn tug at his wrists, he awkwardly rolled onto his side and tried to sleep.

Regardless of Thorin’s certainty, there was no way the others would not find them. Legolas was a loyal soul, Estel could track any beast over any terrain, and Nauro had the uncanny ability of finding Bilbo when he needed him; from the very first night they met, when the eerie stranger almost pummeled that odious rat of a man to death. With that in mind, he hated to think what Nauro would do to Thorin once they caught up with them. And he hated thinking that he would probably have to stand between them in order to stop it from happening. In truth, he hated even more to think how his friend was handling his absence. Not that Bilbo thought so highly of himself, but he knew Nauro’s attachment to him. And his own attachment, of course.

It is why he continued to delay his return home. He suddenly wondered if it would really be so bad to take Nauro back to the Shire. He’d hate the attention of course, but gossip dies quickly. Once the newness of his presence waned, the Hobbits would treat him like one of their own. Most of them anyway. Well, the only ones that matter. All the Bagginses, and Boffins, Tooks and Brandybucks, the Bolgers and even good old Hamfast Gamgee would start calling him “sir.”

The awkward giant would feel out of place, but then again he always felt out of place. But the Hobbits would treat him like a human being, unlike Gandalf or the Elves. They would not lie, or think ill of him. He was sure of that.

In spite of his current situation, Bilbo couldn’t help but smile at the images that danced in his mind. Nauro being overcome by excited Hobbit children, or towering over the market stands and being startled by some of the merchants’ generosity and familiarity. Or sitting awkwardly in one of Bilbo’s armchairs while the fire of his sitting room burns warmly, and winter goes past the circular windows, unheeded.

 

Bilbo woke some time later, having dozed off to images of the Shire in winter. He thought he should be cold, but a cloak had been draped over him, keeping the chill of the cave at bay. Bilbo huffed annoyed, and slightly amused.

“How thoughtful, my kidnapper,” he thought bitterly.

 


	27. Worlds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nauro and Legolas need some alone time . . . they deffinetely don't like it.

 

Chapter 27: Worlds

 

The second morning dawned for the three hunters, since their pursuit began. The climb had been strenuous enough, but the trek over the mountain rage was torturous. Even more so with Nauro not wanting to stop to even draw breath. The other two had managed to keep up at a certain distance, but as the hours wore on, Estel’s strength was failing him. Probably driven by his guilt for the false trail, he pushed himself harder and harder. In the end, there was only so much he could endure.

Nearing evening of the second day, Legolas insisted they stop to rest. Nauro had grudgingly complied. However, once they were ready to start out again, Estel collapsed onto his knees.

“I’m alright, just need to—catch my breath—” he said weakly when Legolas had knelt beside him. “All of it,” he joked weakly as he toppled forwards, caught by his Elf friend.

“We must stop for tonight,” Legolas declared.

“No,” Nauro countered flatly.

“Nauro, he can’t go on.”

“You stop then!”

“We stay together!” Legolas’ usual diplomatic voice faded, and the words sounded more like a command. Nauro practically growled in response, and turned with every intention of going on without them.

“You don’t understand—” he’d started to say under his breath.

“No! I do not!” The Elf prince had suddenly appeared at his side, clutching his arm with a vice-like grip. Nauro had never known him to act so passionately. “I do not understand this fixation you have with the Halfling! You forget I have known you longer than you knew me. I saw you in Lake Town when you were nothing but a helpless mute. You act as if Bilbo is the only creature to ever show you kindness, when he wasn’t! The people of Lake Town took you in and cared for you. Gandalf and Elrond strived to help you recover your memory. Even Estel, the one you’d willingly leave behind, has given you nothing but friendship! And how do you pay him in kind?!”

His tone matched his actions, and his eyes pierced the taller man, making him look away. Nauro knew he should feel ashamed, he should see truth in Legolas’ words. But he couldn’t. Not while Bilbo needed him.

Legolas mistook Nauro avoiding his gaze, and his hold on his arm eased. Instead he placed his hand on Nauro’s shoulder, in a gesture that was meant to comfort but also urge him to see reason.

“He does not have our strength,” he spoke with his usual soft and patient words. “He needs rest. And neither of us will be much use to anyone if we’re only half alive.”

It was the right thing to say. Though Nauro hated it, he needed to remember that this body needed to recover.

What he wouldn’t do for the strength he used to wield—

_What?!_

Why did he just think that? _“The strength I used to wield . . .”_? What strength was that?

“Come, help me set up camp,” Legolas said, oblivious to his friend’s thoughts.

 

Nauro did not move for a moment. His thoughts confused him. It was as if he had started to remember something, without even trying to; but as soon as he became aware of it, the memory leapt back into the dark void of his mind. As he continued to help Legolas with the menial tasks of setting up camp, he let his mind wander aimlessly to see if he could recover the memory.

The voice whispered strange phrases, all of which somehow rang true. Phrases that seemed to describe this former strength he did not remember yet still longed for. Phrases that were muffled by the void, barely audible.

_My armor is like tenfold shields . . . no blade can pierce me! . . .my . . . swords . . . my . . . spears . . . the shock of my . . . a thunderbolt! . . . a hurricane! . . . I . . . am . . . death!_

Armor. Swords and spears. Strength that rivaled the powers of the natural world, like thunder and hurricanes. If such words could be trusted, he must have been some kind of soldier. It would certainly explain the thirst for death and destruction the voice craved.

 

A pitiful little fire crackled as night fell. They had plenty of food, but the only two awake enough to eat had no appetite. Estel slept deeply, far too tired to even acknowledge they were stopping for his sake.

There was a penetrating silence. Usually both Nauro and Legolas enjoyed silence, but this night they were all too aware that the silence hung heavy because one of their companions was unconscious with exhaustion and the other was far away from them.

“You said ‘our’.”

Legolas looked up, startled by the rupture in the silence. Nauro was looking right at him with his cat-like eyes.

“You said ‘he does not have our strength’,” Nauro said, though it sounded more like a question. Legolas understood what it was he was asking.

“We’ve traveled far together, my friend. I know we did not speak on our long journey through Mirkwood and the Wilderlands. I am sorry for it.”

“Don’t be. It’s why I liked you,” Nauro added, with a mischievous smirk. Legolas couldn’t help but laugh softly at that, and Nauro joined him with a soft throaty laugh.

“Well, we may not have spoken then, but I still witnessed your stamina,” the Elf went on, remembering that time when he and Nauro were distanced from each other. It seemed so long ago. “Back then we only really stopped for Gandalf and Bilbo’s sakes. Estel has twice the strength and skill of any ordinary man, but you, my friend, you could easily rival Mirkwood’s finest Elven guards.”

Nauro nodded, then he added in a heavy voice: “You see it, don’t you.”

This was not a question. But Legolas knew the answer all the same.

“I’m not human.”

The two stared at each other. Their friendship did not really begin till Rivendell, and even then it was only nurtured through Bilbo and Estel’s friendship for each other. In the three years they had known each other, these were the most words they had exchanged. And though they could not “read” each other as Nauro could with Bilbo, much was said in this particular silence. He found himself appreciating the honesty he beheld in Legolas’ unwavering gaze.

“What am I?” he genuinely asked.

“I’ve heard legends of the Istari, spirits sent to Middle Earth to protect it,” Legolas spoke, after taking a moment to gather his thoughts. “Though they were often known to be placed in the body of elderly men, so as to teach them humility. I’ve often wondered if you are not one of them. There is great power in you, waiting to be wielded.”

“For what purpose?” he asked, thinking about the voice and its never-ending hope for chaos.

“That I cannot say.”

Estel shifted in his sleep, murmuring words in Elvish. Legolas turned to look at him, but Nauro’s eyes were suddenly intent on the small sputtering fire.

This new silence now seemed . . . awkward.

“Listen,” Legolas started, the apologetic intention already clear, “what I said before—”

“Why do you follow him?” He turned to Nauro, but the other did not look up from the fire. Legolas looked back to the sleeping youth, whose restless pose had become comical, with his lankly limbs thrown about every which way.

“My father’s will is no longer my own,” he started. “After the battle for Erebor . . . all I had seen, all I’d done, I could not bring myself to go back to hiding behind high walls and turn a blind eye to the world. It’s why I left. My father did not try to stop me. He told me to find him instead.”

At this, Nauro tore his eyes away from the fire and looked to Estel. Not a particularly impressive figure in his current state. Legolas kept speaking, his words taking on a dreamer’s tone.

“He said Lord Elrond had taken in a mortal child whose deeds will change the course of the future. If I wanted to play a part in the fate of the world, it would be by Estel’s side.”

“I’ve seen it too,” Nauro said hesitantly. Legolas turned to look at him, not quite sure what he meant. Nauro met his gaze and tentatively lifted a finger, pointing to his head. “In here. In my dreams, I think. I’ve seen terrible fire that could engulf the world, leaving it in darkness. And I’ve seen him rage against it.”

“You have prophetic dreams?” the Elf prince asked eagerly. Nauro shook his head. He really did not know.

“But you do not just follow him because your father told you to,” he said quickly. “What do you see when you look on him?”

As if to aid his response, Legolas looked back to Estel, and a tender smile graced his features.

“I see the future,” he said, his voice filled with hope and pride. “The world as it should be, and still could be.”

He turned back to Nauro, who was nodding, pleased with the response.

“And what would you do if that was taken from you?”

 

Estel was dreaming. Oblivious to the world around him, or the moment of renewed silence between his two friends. Legolas held Nauro’s gaze, but he had nothing to say. Nothing to express the shame towards his own words, or the fear he lived with every day for the last three years.

“That world you see,” Nauro went on, “that is what I see when I look on Bilbo.”

Estel turned over, beginning a new mumbled stanza in Elvish. The fire burned low, and with no mountains to block it, a thick cold wind struck at them. Despite their strength, weariness finally threatened to overcome them.

“We will find him, my friend,” the Elf prince spoke once more before they allowed sleep to claim them.

 


	28. An Unfortunate Detour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I'm late on this update (not that anyone's keeping track, haha, I'm just OCD). Anyway, I recently discovered the song "Demons" by Imagine Dragons and it eerily reminded me of Nauro's character and his relationship to Bilbo, so it has become part of the story and will be a recurring theme. Here is a fragment that I feel captures Nauro's voice and I'm including a link to an amazing cover of it by Caleb Hyles if you want to check it out! 
> 
> "I wanna hide the truth  
> I wanna shelter you  
> But with the beast inside  
> There’s nowhere we can hide
> 
> No matter what we breed  
> We still are made of greed  
> This is my kingdom come  
> This is my kingdom come
> 
> When you feel my heat  
> Look into my eyes  
> It’s where my demons hide  
> It’s where my demons hide  
> Don’t get too close  
> It’s dark inside  
> It’s where my demons hide  
> It’s where my demons hide"
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zv-SyDCiGfQ
> 
> Anyway, back to the story!

 

Chapter 28: An Unfortunate Detour

 

The mouth of the cavern gaped wide, and the darkness within was endless. The wind coming from inside chilled his very blood. It smelled of dank closeness, of thing forgotten and left to decay. Bilbo couldn’t remember how he came to stand before this terrible opening, or why he felt so afraid. All he knew was that he had to go in.

He took the first hesitant step and as his eyes adjusted to the first layer of darkness, he could see there were stairs. Stairs of cold hard rock, mercilessly carved out of the mountain’s bones, leading down to an impenetrable blackness. Bilbo’s heart beat harshly against his chest, but he could not heed it. He had to keep going.

“Don’t get too close,” a frail voice spoke behind him.

Bilbo turned to see Nauro standing at the opening. Or was it Nauro?

This man was bent over with fear, his face pale and wan with terror. His hands fretted with unease, and his eyes stared at Bilbo, pitifully begging. He fought the need to comfort this wretch, but his fear of what awaited him at the end of those stairs kept him rooted to the spot. All he could do was stare at the skulking figure.

“It’s dark inside,” the weak man spoke in a voice bereft of hope. The final word echoed off the cavern walls, and suddenly every rock and stone trembled. The echo seemed to escalate instead of fade. It grew and grew until the very foundations of the earth shook. The rumbling became too much and Bilbo fell to the ground, covering his ears to shut out what now sounded like a terrible taunting voice. One he still could hear in his darker dreams, and here it was again.

Laughing. Mocking. Engulfing him . . .

 

“Bilbo,” a firm hand on his shoulder woke him.

The dark cavern with its terrible rumbling shattered in the weak morning’s light. It took Bilbo a moment to recover his bearings; a moment to remember why Thorin was waking him, or why they were sleeping rough on the side of a mountain trail.

 _Oh, right,_ Bilbo thought to himself snidely, _I’ve been kidnapped._

 

The first couple days of traveling further up the mountain were torture. Thorin kept Bilbo’s hands bound as they hiked during the day, making it impossible for the Hobbit to reach his magic ring. And when they stopped at night, his feet were bound as well. It still didn’t stop Bilbo from trying to delay them, hoping the others would catch up. Though his escape attempts had slowed their progress, there was still no sign of the cavalry. Bilbo had become anxious.

As the days wore on, Bilbo finally gave up. They were deep in territory that was foreign to him, and even if he managed to get away, he would be alone and lost. Not to mention, an actual successful escape would mean using the ring, which he did not want Thorin knowing about.

It was a thin voice in the back of his mind, one he could not ignore, that convinced him the Dwarf could never know about the ring.

_He will take it from you . . ._

Bilbo wasn’t entirely convinced this was true, but he was certain he didn’t want Thorin knowing about it just yet.

Once Thorin was sure Bilbo was done trying to escape, there were no more ropes, and their going was much quicker. He still missed the bits of cloth that Bilbo was leaving in their wake.

The Hobbit had taken to carrying three handkerchiefs, each in different pockets, when he was on a journey. When Thorin wasn’t looking, he made quick work of pulling them apart and leaving strips of them lodged between rocks, knotted to brambles or branches, or at times even half burying them in his own footprints on fresh ground.

It was not the first dream of the deep cavern, or of a sickly weak Nauro begging him not to venture inside. Bilbo only attributed them to his anxiety towards his missing companions, but they still left him with an uneasy feeling, one that would linger throughout the day.

What was it that awaited at the end of the stairs?

Or rather, who was it?

 

By late afternoon, they had started their descent from the High Pass. It wouldn’t be long until they reached the lower valley. Bilbo couldn’t stop thinking about the orc patrols Legolas had warned them about, or other fell creatures who had taken to wandering the wild. He also couldn’t help but think once they reached the lower valley, it would be close to impossible for the others to find them. And he would eventually run out of handkerchiefs.

Exhausted—they had hardly stopped all day—he plopped down on the side of the trail. Thorin was far ahead, and huffed loudly before turning back to where Bilbo had stopped.

“I don’t suppose—” Bilbo said between breaths, “there’s anything I can say to—”

“No,” Thorin cut in.

“No, didn’t think so,” he groaned.

Their conversations, since that first night, usually didn’t last much longer than that.

 

Perhaps it was just Legolas’ words ringing in his ears, but the lower valley seemed sinister and dark. And perhaps it was simply his own nerves, but Bilbo thought Thorin shared his hesitance towards the dark woods ahead. If the Dwarf King did, then he hid it well.

The following day was overcast and dreary, and the two travelers moved slowly, wary of every sound or any stirring around them. The lands they were in were filled with high slopes and wide valleys that stretched far before being cut off by dark thick woods. They had barely stopped to rest—or eat!—and when the cold evening shifted into a moonless night, Bilbo had tried to stop.

“Not here,” Thorin had said and kept walking at a fast pace.

“Thorin—” Bilbo pleaded.

“We’ll stop further ahead,” he heard from the retreating figure.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were nervous,” Bilbo said, stomping along in protest.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” was the only response from Thorin, who was quickly fading into the dark ahead.

“Pheh,” the weary Hobbit scoffed, “maybe next time someone tries to tell you the land is dangerous, you’ll listen! Even if it is an Elf—”

Bilbo stopped, having caught sight of a camp in the valley below. It caught Bilbo’s attention because it was the first sign of life they’d come across. There were no villages or settlements nearby, and no known roads for tradesmen or merchants. What was an entire caravan doing out so far in the wild?

He scarcely had time to wonder or take in the sight of the two carts and the campfires before he was tackled to the ground. Thorin signaled him to be quiet, and from their hiding place, safe behind some rocks, they peered over to survey the camp. Because of his companion’s reaction, Bilbo feared they had run into one of the dreaded orc patrols, but once he looked carefully at the figures huddled around the fires, he realized they were Men.

“What is it?” Bilbo whispered, seeing Thorin’s anxious face. “Who are they?”

“Slavers,” Thorin said with disdain.

It was then that Bilbo looked closer. The carts were filled with miserable souls, their heads bowed and their hands and feet manacled. The few around the campfires were laughing raucously, already slurring and spilling their ale. Even the creatures pulling the carts looked monstrous, massive horses with deformed muscles and dead eyes. And Bilbo was suddenly afraid.

“Are they—are they prisoners?” he asked, staring at the carts.

“Farmers. Villagers. Travelers,” the King answered with a heavy voice. “Anyone they could get their hands on, who wouldn’t be missed.”

“Where are they taking them?”

“To the mines in the East,” he spoke, his fierce eyes glinting to the direction of the dark lands. Bilbo knew what he meant. Even in the Shire there were terrible stories of such a place. Stories meant to frighten, and always left the listeners quaking with fear.

The two remained still, their mutual silence broken by the horrible revolting laughter of the Men below, and what went unspoken weighed heavily upon them. Bilbo looked to Thorin, and the King returned the gaze.

As it turns out, they didn’t have to say anything. They knew what they had to do.

 

The fires were burning low, and the foul drunks were starting to nod off, leaning against trees or simply falling flat on their faces next to fiery embers. The chains were silent, as the prisoners slept in their brief moments of peace. The two had managed to sneak close unseen. Once they were close enough, they stayed out of sight. While Bilbo was steeling himself for what was coming, Thorin was busy looking through his pack. He suddenly grabbed hold of Bilbo’s arm.

“If you even think of telling me to stay put, Thorin Oakenshield, I’ll—”

“No, you’ll be needing this.” And from the pack, he produced a blade, heavy but small enough for Bilbo to handle. Though it was bulky, he was able to stuff it in one of his coat’s outer pockets.

“The lout with the bandaged hand,” Thorin went on, pointing to the nearest campfire where one large figure with a great big gut snored horribly, while two other drunks slobbered in a drunken sleep. At the other campfire, there were two more Men, both leaning against trees and logs, seemingly asleep. “He seemed to hold standing over the others. It’s likely he’ll have the keys to the chains on him.”

Bilbo gulped, then nodded.

“I’ll cover you,” Thorin said.

The Hobbit took in a deep breath, then went on his way towards the dying campfire. He realized with dread that he would not be able to use his ring until he was out of Thorin’s sight, the little voice in his mind still urging him to keep it a secret. Meaning, in full sight, he would have to sneak up on the revolting humans. As he stepped, his footfalls soft and light, he listed all the creatures he’s had to sneak up on ever since he left the Shire.

Trolls for one, and that had not ended well.

Goblins, which ended far worse for him.

Gollum! Bilbo had tried hard not to think of that wretched creature, and the last words he had shrieked as Bilbo fled.

The three Men did not stir. Bilbo was close enough to gag on their foul ale-ridden breaths.

_“Thief! Curse it and crush it! We hates it forever!”_

Step over the outstretched arm of the first.

The spiders, which in spite of being horrific with their bulbous bellies and terrible pincers, he somehow thought he preferred to sneak up on their hoard again than these ruffians.

The second drunk snorted and turned over, and it took everything for Bilbo to stifle his startled gasp.

Elves, who were rather pleasant to sneak around. Not only because Bilbo prided himself in never being spotted despite their keen ears and eyes, but because they certainly smelled better than anything in this camp. Not to mention, had he ever been discovered by the Mirkwood Elves, they would not have harmed him.

The horrid third man loomed over Bilbo. His gut was even bigger up close, and there were almost two more chins beneath the first. His mouth was gaping wide open, and bits of food and dried up drool could be seen on his beard. His breath was the foulest of all, and the odor emanating from his body was worse still. The keys glistened in the dying fire’s light, latched onto a leather strap, which was attached to the giant bellied oaf’s belt. Bilbo held in his breath, and leaned in close. His quick fingers worked at the strap, though it was difficult to undo. It was at this most inopportune moment that he remembered the very last creature he had to sneak up on.

Smaug.

A bloody dragon that very nearly devoured him. Or set him on fire. But instead preferred to torture him.

_“You CARE about them, do you?”_

Bilbo recoiled at the echo of that rumbling voice. In a moment of desperation, he had faced the dragon in the Hall of Kings, hoping against hope to stop him from going after the townspeople. There was nowhere to run in that vast hall. Nowhere to hide. Smaug could have killed him then and there, but instead he had delighted in the thought that destroying Esgaroth would be a greater punishment than death.

_“Good . . .”_

Bilbo tried to shake away the memory, shutting his eyes tightly and holding back a shuddering breath. In an instant, the memory warped. The vast hall became the dark cavern of his dream, and in place of a dragon’s head hovering over him, it was a tall pale elegant figure looking down at him with familiar storm grey eyes. And an eerie human voice spoke:

_“Then you can watch them DIE!”_

His hands shook suddenly, and startled he faltered in his task. The large keys dropped heavily, and there was but a fraction of a second for Bilbo to realize what the resulting resounding clang meant.

“Wot the ‘ell iz dat?!” came a voice just as disgusting.

The large gut moved along with the horrible round face, and the giant loomed over him. The large hands flew, as if they were about to swat a fly, but the fly vanished from sight. Bilbo tried to run back the way he’d come, but bony fingers caught his foot.

“I got it! I got it!” one of the drunks started chanting, though he looked utterly confused at the sight of his hand wrapped around something he couldn’t see. “I think I got it?”

“Where is ee? Where?” the others started waking up, and yelling as they looked for the source of the uproar.

Their rude awakening became even worse as a fierce Dwarf leapt out of the trees, blade swinging. Drunk and half awake, they were no match for the warrior. Very soon the three around the first campfire had fallen with injuries to their legs and arms. The fourth figure from the second fire had had plenty of time to wake up from his stupor and was aiming an arrow right at Thorin. Before he could fire, he fell over, knocked out cold.

Thorin turned to see Bilbo standing over the fallen man, with an overly large thick stick in his hands. The two shared a half smile of momentary relief. Both of them forgetting there was a fifth man.

This man was not one for drink, and while his companions had drunken themselves unconscious, he had remained sober and resting against a tree. At the first sign of trouble, he had taken to the shadows and waited for the right moment to strike.

A knife appeared at Bilbo’s neck while a long pale hand grabbed hold of his coat. Thorin put up Orcrist.

“I’d put that down if I were you, Dwarf!” the giant cackled. Despite dragging himself away from Thorin like a coward, he now spoke with an overly confident grin. “Wouldn’t want Cerrus gettin’ too excited now, do we?”

Bilbo could barely move his head, since it was a mere couple of inches away from the blade. He still tried shaking his head at Thorin. He could not give up his sword!

The knife suddenly turned and Bilbo gasped as he felt it nick at his neck.

“Stop!” Orcrist fell to the ground, and Thorin’s hands were raised in surrender.

The giant lifted himself heavily, continuing his terrible cackling. With the Dwarf unarmed, he was suddenly very tough. “Now then,” the giant said, “wot ‘ave we ‘ere! Tryin’ to rob us, eh!”

The other drunkards got to their feet, nursing their injuries, each trying to cackle along with their leader.

“Big bad Dwarf, all high an’ mighty,” one of the others started weakly, while his leg bled heavily. “Not so much high an’ mighty with yer sweet ‘eart around! Hah hah!”

It took Bilbo a moment to realize he was referring to him. He was far too nervous to feel outraged. Especially when a hand mercilessly grabbed hold of his hair and yanked him around. It was the fourth man, taking revenge for Bilbo knocking him out earlier.

“This your wife, then?” he said, almost lifting Bilbo off his feet by his hair. Thorin took a step forward, gritting his teeth. The ruffian laughed at this and practically tossed Bilbo at him.

“Do Dwarves ‘ave females?” one of the other drunks slurred, stumbling and swinging a spiked club dangerously. Thorin kept a protective arm on Bilbo as the ruffians closed in around them, each with a weapon in hand.

“Don’t they?”

“Dunno.”

“Well, what’s this then? Some kind of beardless Dwarf!” said the one Bilbo had knocked out, shoving at Bilbo with the handle of a large whip.

“Nah, lookit its feet,” the giant said, eyeing both of them with a malicious glint. “It’s a Halfling. Never known ‘em to be ‘round these parts though.”

Thorin practically shoved Bilbo behind him. Though the ruffians were now an all sides, the disgusting giant was the greater danger.

“Toss ‘em in with the others!” he spat. Rough arms separated them. Two men were required to hold the struggling Dwarf, but only one was needed for the small Hobbit. “Strong Dwarf like that, oughta be worth a pretty penny. Probably feel right at ‘ome in the mines, eh? As for the ‘alfling,” he said grabbing hold of Bilbo’s face and pinching it in one meaty sweaty hand, “probably get some money for it too. After all, lots of nooks and crannies in the bowels of the earth!”

They were dragged towards the carts, and the grotesque giant continued to yell orders.

“Get a move on too! We’ve ‘ad enuff sleep!”

They all stopped as one of the drunkards yelped in pain.

“You gonna make it?” the giant asked one man who was lagging, nursing a deep cut Orcrist had made in his leg.

“Just a scratch, Boras, a scratch!” the other said, with a tight voice. In truth, he could hardly walk and the bleeding was thick.

“Agh, that’ll need stitching,” the man holding Bilbo groaned. “P’raps it best we leave at first light—”

He never finished for a bloodcurdling scream was heard as the man with the bleeding leg fell over. A knife was sticking from his throat, and his gurgled cries dwindled until there was eerie silence.

“That’d take too long,” the giant burped and removed his knife from the now lifeless body.

Thorin and Bilbo exchanged fearful glances. The grotesque cackling rang out far into the night.

 


	29. The Trail Goes Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys run into their own spot of trouble.
> 
> Unabashed Shakespeare quote in this one :P

 

Chapter 29: The Trail Goes Cold

 

Estel wasn’t sure he liked this new alliance between Legolas and Nauro. They were often in each other’s company and ever since his blunder with the tracks, they collectively made all traveling decisions. As well as all resting decisions, which usually meant the two of them making sure he ate and slept properly.

The youth remembered wondering what it would be like to have siblings. He now felt he knew it too well and decided he preferred being an only child.

They’d made their way south as planned, but time went on and there was no sign of either Hobbit or Dwarf. It wasn’t till some days later that they finally came across the remnants of a campfire. Estel eagerly examined the site and found a thin strip of white fabric.

“Hah hah! Yes, Bilbo!” he had cried out excited when he displayed the finding to the others. His excitement was only met with blank stares. “Don’t you recognize it? It’s from one of Bilbo’s handkerchiefs! Those dratted things he takes everywhere and he’s always shoving in our faces! Look!”

Nauro caught the scent off the fabric as Estel waved it about, and he seized it in his long fingers. “It’s his,” he said, his eyes searching the site for any other sight.

“We have a trail, then,” Legolas said.

 

The tracks were slight, since most of the terrain was still made up of rock and harsh ground, but Bilbo’s handkerchief trail helped them along. From the condition of the fabric, Estel believed it had not been more than a day or two since it had been left to the elements. Their spirits were finally lifted, and their pace quickened as the trail led them down the mountain.

Once they reached the valley below, the tracks were clearer since the forest ground was fresh, and even Bilbo’s lighter steps were captured in the earth.

Until the tracks vanished.

“I don’t understand it,” Estel said, stomping out from the brushes and brambles, for the seventh time that evening. “They were following this path from the edge of the mountainside. What made them leave it? And why did they cut through here?! I can’t make out either of their tracks at all in all this!” He kicked at the thick foliage impeding his search.

“We’ll not find anything in the dark,” Legolas shrugged. “We might miss more signs in the dark. It will have to wait till morning. Let us return to the stream and make camp for the night. Come, Estel. Nauro.”

Estel kicked at the forest ground one more time before following Legolas down the path. Nauro did not move. His keen gaze looked over the lands around them, as if trying to pierce through the trees and thickets with his eyes alone.

“Do you feel it?” he whispered to Legolas when the Elf prince stood by his side.

“Yes,” he answered. “Since we entered the valley. Someone is watching, but I cannot sense a presence.”

“Nor I. At least none living,” Nauro mumbled, more to himself.

“Stay on your guard,” Legolas said, turning away. “We’ll keep watch tonight.”

 

They had backtracked to a thin stream, whose flow sang a soothing song. Nauro however was still uneasy, and he watched the dark woods around them as if every shadow and shape was an enemy ready to attack. Every muscle was tense, ready to attack back.

 _You’re out there,_ he spoke to the presence in the woods, _I can feel you . . ._

“Take heart, Nauro,” Estel’s voice tore him from his silent dialogue. “We’re close to finding them. I know it! You’ll have Bilbo nagging at you again before you know it.”

The youth was still standing by the stream, pressing handfuls of the cool clear water to his face and neck. Eventually he plunged his entire face in the water and drank deeply from it. Legolas was busy filling their water skins, and once that was done, he too cupped water in his hands and brought it to his lips.

Seeing the two, Nauro suddenly felt an aching thirst and joined them. He perched himself on the damp clumps of long grass, on the cool mud, and plunged his long fingers into the flowing water. He pressed his fingers together, cradling some water and lifting it to his face. As the soothing liquid touched his lips, he felt renewed, and a chill coursed through his entire body. He continued to drink, feeling an almost unbearable thirst that only this one stream could ease.

 

Little did the travelers know that a sinister figure in the dark, one hooded and cloaked in black, was indeed watching them. And once they had settled by the stream, the figure had moved but a few feet away from them. Shrouded by the night, aided by its own dark tattered cloak, it went on unseen by the weary company. A spectral hand had moved slowly and dipped a skeletal finger into the little stream. An inky black substance oozed from the fingertip, and was borne away by the innocent coursing water. Unable to prevent the malicious delivery, it bore the dark spell straight into the thirsty travelers’ hands, as they gathered handfuls of water and drank deep.

The figure watched as they eagerly drank and drank, overcome by a simple spell of want. It was satisfied by the very feel of the dark magic now coursing through their bodies.

Soon the comfort that once eased their weary bones would chill them. It would weigh down their limbs, and silence their minds. It would bring on a deep sleep . . .

It was already working.

The first to fall was the boy. He hadn’t even tried to fight the spell. He had simply lay down next to the stream and let it take hold.

The Elf fought, but did not last. Concerned for the boy’s well-being, he had stayed the workings of the spell. He had shaken the sleeping youth, urgently trying to wake him. He had stood on weak legs and spoke of a fell presence. But he was overcome, and his legs gave out.

It would have been a nasty fall, hard on that pretty face, but the master’s guest caught him. Despite the quickly coursing poison, and no doubt the weakness in his own limbs, he still eased the Elf’s limp body onto the long grass.

He fought, and fought, but this spell could not be shaken off like a veil. Not when it flowed within your very blood.

No need to hide anymore.

The figure walked slowly from the shadows, and basked in the moment when the master’s guest saw him. He tried to rise to his feet and attack. To no avail, of course. The poison’s work is quick, and he fell, clawing at the ground, gnashing his teeth, fighting so hard.

“You—” a snarl weakly escaped a closing throat.

 _“Shhhhhh,”_ the figure soothed mockingly, skeletal fingers dancing over the man’s closing eyes. _“No fight now. Sleeeeeeeeeep.”_

The spell took hold, and the fight in those eyes went out like a light. The cloaked figure retreated back into the shadows as the three slept, and the innocent stream went on its way.

 _And in that death-like sleep,_ the figure hissed with glee, _what dreams may come . . ._

 


	30. Bearly Rescued!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yup, the title is a bad pun. Neener neener!
> 
> Please don't kill me.

 

Chapter 30: Bearly Rescued!

 

The slavers had no manacles that would fit a Dwarf or Hobbit, so their hands were instead bound with harsh rope that instantly cut into their skin. Both had been thrown into one of the carts, along with the other slaves. The poor men were so defeated they barely acknowledged the presence of the new prisoners.

The terrifying mutated horses pulling the carts went twice the speed of a regular horse, and the two companions could only helplessly watch as the land sped past them.

As the carts went on the rough road, Thorin pointed out that they were taking them deeper into the wilderland, always heading towards the dreaded East, away from their original path. Bilbo realized with dread that every step of those monstrous beasts was taking them farther and farther away from any chance of reuniting with the others. Then he’d have to remind himself that they were also taking them away from freedom itself.

A small glimmer of hope entered Bilbo’s heart when in the distance he spotted a tall rock formation in the shape of a bear’s head. “The Carrock,” he whispered to himself. If they entered Beorn’s domain, they would be saved! This hope however died when the carts turned southeast, and the great bear’s head sunk into an ocean of trees.

On the third day since their capture, the carts stopped suddenly and the slavers were visibly in a panic. Thorin pressed himself closer to the bars of the cart in order to listen to their anxious talk.

“Wot iz it now?”

“Rangers. Up ahead.”

“Bloody brilliant! Wot are we s’pposed to do now?!”

“Boss says we bettah lay low fer t’night. Cross the Great Ford in the mornin’.”

The carts were pulled off the road and dragged over uneven ground. The prisoners grunted as their chains rattled with every bump. Afterwards they were forced off the carts and marched deep into the woods. Once the carts were well hidden, the slavers set up camp.

They made no fire so as to stay hidden from the “rangers”. There were only small lanterns. The chained prisoners were left huddled together, shivering in the cold night and threatened to remain quiet. Bilbo and Thorin were set in a different part of the camp; their hands and feet were still bound, but their immobility secured by tying the two back to back.

Thorin wondered who were these rangers that could cause fear in such ruthless men. Bilbo was too busy thinking about their current situation.

“Good,” Bilbo said, gritting his teeth, “just brilliant. This is all simply brilliant.”

“I did not see you oppose the plan,” Thorin grumbled.

“No, I did not oppose trying to help those men,” Bilbo raised his voice. “I opposed traveling without our companions who—even you can’t deny—would have come in use in this particular situation!”

“I am not listening to this again.”

“Oh, wait, we wouldn’t even BE in this particular situation if you hadn’t decided to let go of all forms of sanity!”

“OI!” one of the men snapped in the direction of the two. “Keep yer traps shut or I’ll ‘ave yer tongues!”

Bilbo huffed angrily, shoving against the Dwarf’s back he was currently attached to.

“If you are expecting me to apologize for my actions—”

“No, of course not, you never do. I’d have thought after everything we went through you would at least be more willing to accept the help of others.”

“I wouldn’t trust that _thing_ —”

“Nauro! His name is Nauro!” Bilbo snapped, then realized it was a little too loud. They were both quiet for a moment, to make sure the slavers had not heard. Bilbo went on in a lower tone. “Nauro is my friend, and he’s saved my life more times than I can count. I will never apologize for our friendship. And if he needed my help, the very least I could do was give it.”

Thorin paused at this. “What do you mean the very least?” he asked in a low voice.

“Nothing,” Bilbo said quickly.

The two were silent, though Thorin could feel Bilbo’s quickened breathing against his back. The memories of the events following the dragon’s flight from Erebor were hazy for the Dwarf King. His grandfather’s illness had not taken long in overwhelming his mind, dulling his senses, and seizing his heart. He knew he had shown little emotion to the thought that his own nephews perished in the fire, and it haunted him. There was so much he missed in that time, before he recovered his mind. Perhaps there was one more thing he missed.

“You . . .” he started tentatively, “you blame yourself for what happened to Lake Town?”

Bilbo’s breathing hitched. He never confided this to anyone. Not to Gandalf, or Nauro . . . in a way, not even to himself. Never out loud. It seemed fitting that it should be Thorin he would tell this to.

“When I was face to face with Smaug, he asked who I was. I wasn’t about to tell a bloody dragon that or anything about the Shire. I came up with riddles instead. Inside jokes about all my deeds on the journey. I thought I was so clever. The lucky number, the web cutter . . . barrel rider. Barrels,” he echoed, and his voice became heavy.

“He thought I was from Lake Town, or at least affiliated to them in some way.”

He stopped, and Thorin turned his head as much as he could. He wished he could see the Hobbit’s face.

“There were close to three hundred people living in that town, Thorin,” Bilbo’s voice cracked, Thorin had to hold his breath so as not to miss a single word spoken in grief. “Seventy nine died that night. Nearly a third of the inhabitants. Men, women, children. All because I wanted to be clever.”

“That’s why,” the Halfling went on, taking in a shuddering breath, “when one of them asked for my help . . . Nauro came to me, Thorin. Lost, confused, with nothing. He lost everything that night and—what else could I do but—give him what he needed.”

The words hung heavy in the air, and for a moment, there was nothing more to be said.

“Bilbo,” the Hobbit couldn’t help but feel surprised at Thorin speaking his first name. It had been far too long since he’d heard it. “What happened that night was not your fault.”

The attempt at comfort was moving, and though Bilbo could not bring himself to believe it, coming from his old friend was heart-warming.

“I will say it until you believe it,” the voice continued in a soft yet urgent tone, as if he had read his very thoughts. “You are not to blame for what happened.”

This was enough to bring tears to Bilbo’s eyes. Tears he’d long held, and never really allowed himself to weep.

It was rather uncomfortable to be sniffling and dripping when he could not wipe at his face. Either way, his handkerchiefs were long gone, he thought amused. He had unconsciously tried to reach his outer coat pocket, even with his wrists bound, and it was then that he felt it.

He could not stop the hysterical little laugh that escaped his throat. Thorin tried to turn, brow furrowed in confusion. This was hardly the time to laugh!

“What in Durin’s name was that?!”

“The blade!” Bilbo whispered excitedly. “The blade you gave me. I can’t believe they missed it!”

Thorin gaped. “Are you telling me you’ve had that blasted thing in your coat pocket this whole time?!”

“I was a little preoccupied with other things, thank you!”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Says the Dwarf who got us into this mess to begin with!”

“Shhh!” Thorin shushed, then added in a whisper: “Can you reach it?”

“I think so . . .” He could feel the Hobbit’s wriggling.

“Ridiculous Hobbit,” he mumbled under his breath.

“One more word out of you and I’ll leave you here.”

Somehow, Bilbo managed to pull the blade from his pocket and slide it out of its leather strap. Awkwardly, he twisted it in his fingers and sliced the ropes around his wrists. He gasped victoriously, then cut the ropes on his feet and the thick binding around him and Thorin. He was about to stand when Thorin spoke sternly.

“Don’t move.”

In Bilbo’s excitement, he had quite forgotten that they were still in sight of the slavers. But it was not without hope. The slavers were far too preoccupied with the rangers they feared, and having made no campfire, the Hobbit and Dwarf had the night on their side. The lanterns were far too feeble, but any sudden movements and they would be stopped.

“Move slowly,” Thorin whispered, keeping his keen eyes on the distracted slavers. “Put the knife in my hands. Then sit back down.” Bilbo followed his instructions, even going so far as to keep the larger rope attached where he had cut. He could hardly feel Thorin cutting at his own bindings.

“Listen carefully,” the Dwarf started, still in a low whisper. “You must have noticed we turned southeast. To get back to the High Pass, don’t follow the carts’ tracks. Stay inland and head west. Follow the sun’s descent, and then keep the mountains to your left—”

“Don’t talk like that!” Bilbo hissed.

“Just listen! This is in case we get separated.”

“Oh, no you don’t,” Bilbo said, trying to sound lighthearted. “You dragged me all the way out here, you better get me out!”

“We’re still outnumbered. And we can’t leave them,” Thorin’s gaze had turned to the other prisoners, barely visible in the other side of the camp. “If anything should happen, you run! Find the others and tell them that I hope they won’t think too ill of me.”

Bilbo shuddered at the thought. “If you think I’m going to take on your apologies for you, you are greatly mistaken. You’re going to have to apologize profusely to them yourself, Thorin Oakenshield. And trust me, you will have to negotiate strenuously to get back into their good graces.”

Thorin did not respond.

 

The leader of the slavers, Boras, was far too distracted worrying about those accursed rangers. So much so, he did not feel invisible fingers stealing his keys. Not that Bilbo had told Thorin about the ring. He had relied on the dark of the camp to cover his actual invisibility. And as much as he loathed going anywhere near that revolting man, he agreed with Thorin. They could no more leave the other prisoners than they could leave each other in the slavers’ hands.

By the time they slavers realized they should have paid attention to their own campsite than the silent woods around them, it was too late. The prisoners were free, and had scattered into the woods. You could hardly blame them. After all, the chains had simply come undone. They did not question the magic, nor did they stop to question who was yelling at them to flee.

The slavers started to pursue, but they had greatly underestimated the hatred their prisoners held for them. Some of the men had fled into the woods, but not to escape. They lay in wait, armed now with renewed strength and what weapons the forest could offer. Two of the slavers fell to the prisoners’ attacks, and only three were left.

Like the cowards they were, they attempted to flee. One did not get far, as a fierce Dwarf warrior was waiting for him. He had leapt out from one of the carts, his recovered sword in hand. And this time he showed no mercy.

Boras ran for the mutated horses, but before he could reach them, the straps keeping them attached to the thick carts came loose. Even the terrible creatures knew no loyalty. As soon as they were free, they vanished, crashing blindly into the woods.

“It’s you, isn’t it? You little rat!” the raging man growled, taking up one of the lanterns and shinning it here and there. “Oy’ll find you—”

The lantern’s light was weak, but it still cast its light. While the horrid man could not figure out how there was a small crouching shadow on the ground with no body in sight, he did not let his chance slip away. He threw out his arms and lunged in the direction of the shadow.

Thorin leapt into the light and kept the bulbous figure at bay. He did not see the silent man setting an arrow to a bow.

Boras cackled as his eyes got used to the dark, and he was not mistaken in seeing the shaft of an arrow sticking out of the Dwarf’s shoulder. He bent over in pain, his sword arm now useless.

“THORIN!” a cry from the ground rang out.

While Boras and his silent companion looked about for the source of the cry, the lantern was torn from his grubby hand and smashed into the ground. Both slavers were plunged into darkness. When they finally started up another lantern and held it aloft, they saw that they were without their companions, without horses, and without their cargo.

And the Dwarf had vanished.

“ ‘Ee won’t get far with that shoulder,” Boras cackled.

 

The sky was quickly changing colors by the time Bilbo thought it was safe enough to stop. He’d supported Thorin’s weight when the Dwarf’s pace started to weaken. He’d broken off most of the shaft, but there was still a part of it lodged in his shoulder.

“You’re going to have to pull it out,” Thorin grit his teeth, leaning against a tree once they’d stopped.

“Right, yes,” Bilbo stammered, “I can do that . . . I think.”

His hands shaking, he grabbed hold of the arrow, but let go at Thorin’s gasp of pain.

“I can take it,” the Dwarf assured him.

“I’m not worried about you, I’m worried about me,” Bilbo joked, and Thorin scoffed weakly.

It took more strength than he’d thought to pull it out, and once he managed that, the blood came fast. He had to be quick. So he removed his vest and tore it in two, using one part to stop the flow and the other half as an improvised bandage.

“You’re going to have to leave me,” Thorin spoke in a tight voice.

“Don’t be absurd, you just need to rest,” the Hobbit answered nervously.

“Bilbo,” a heavy hand grabbed hold of his, and gripped tight with pain. Thorin’s face was drained of color, his features contorted with pain. His eyes however, remained strong and intent. “I am sorry.”

Bilbo had trouble believing he had heard right. “You must be in terrible pain if you can say that,” he joked.

“No,” Thorin pressed. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for . . . everything—”

“Thorin? Thorin!”

The Dwarf’s head fell back against the tree, and his entire body sagged into unconsciousness. Bilbo was relieved to see his chest rise and fall softly, but he knew there was no help in these woods.

And his blood froze at the sound of familiar cackling.

Boras had followed them, and he in turn was followed by the mute man. They came suddenly, murder clear in their intent.

Bilbo was exhausted, weak from several days of no food or water, no sleep or even much mobility. Even so, he took Orcrist from Thorin’s limp hand and leapt to his feet. The blade was far too heavy, and much too big for him to handle. He barely held it up with shaking arms and planted himself in front of his friend’s sleeping form. This only made the cackling grow louder.

Until a terrible roar shook the very ground, and the cackling died in the horrid man’s look of horror.

Bilbo averted his eyes when a monstrous shape burst from the woods and fell upon the two men. He dropped Orcrist and threw himself down, covering his ears and trying hard to shut out the sounds of the attack.

Then there was silence. Then there were heavy footfalls. Then there was breathing.

The Hobbit gathered the very last of his strength to look up, and was face to face with a bear’s head that was practically half of Bilbo’s size. The monster breathed heavily, its snout inches away from Bilbo, taking in his scent. Had this been any other wild bear, the Halfling would have long fainted in sheer fear. But this bear was known to him.

“Easy, Beorn,” he spoke, his voice shaking. “It’s me. Remember?”

Bilbo shook from head to toe as the giant bear’s head reared back and let out a growl.

“Please remember . . .”

The eyes seemed to soften, however slightly. And the monster bent low to the ground, staring at Bilbo expectantly. When the Hobbit did not move, it growled again and ruffled his fur along his back. Bilbo did not need hesitate. Putting Orcrist back in its sheath, he practically dragged Thorin to the creature’s side. With help from one of the bear’s massive arms, he was able to heft the heavy Dwarf onto its back. Apologizing for every tug on its fur, Bilbo struggled to climb on next to Thorin. He hardly had time to settle before the creature rose up and made for the deeper woods.

Bilbo threw his arms around the bear’s neck for good hold. Despite the unnatural speed and the fact that he was in fact hugging a giant bear’s neck, he felt safe and allowed sleep to take him as the dangerous land flew by in a blur.

 


	31. A Good Host

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo and Thorin are safe in the House of Beorn, but quite a few surprises await them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late! In the inmortal words of the Green Goblin, work is murder :P

 

Chapter 31: A Good Host

 

Thorin jolted awake, the pain in his shoulder stinging like mad. It took a moment for him to understand where he was. And even then, it took a moment to believe it.

He was in fact slung over the back of a giant bear.

A giant paw latched onto his back, sending jabs of pain from his shoulder down his arm. He was lifted off then dropped on a hard wooden surface. He let out a groan of pain, which the massive creature ignored. The giant paw was busy prying off a second figure from its thick neck. Once Thorin got over his pain, he realized it was Bilbo, sound asleep and completely limp in the bear’s grip. It did not escape Thorin that the dratted creature set Bilbo down on the ground with greater care than it had shown him.

The bear then turned and hurried off at an impossible pace. Thorin lifted himself heavily, grasping his injured shoulder. Looking around, he recognized Beorn’s enclosed garden, giant bees, oak trees and colorful flowers. The creature had left them both on the doorstep, the great wooden doors looming over them.

“Bilbo,” he gently shook the sleeping Hobbit. While he struggled to open his eyes, Thorin took a good look at his friend. The last few days had taken their toll on him, his face worn with stress and pale with exhaustion. Without the extra layer of his vest, he shook at the chill air.

It was then that Thorin saw the white gleam of the mithril shirt he had given to him. A kingly gift, which despite their rupture, Bilbo had kept. Thorin couldn’t help but feel moved by this.

“Where’s Beorn?” the weary voice mumbled.

“Left,” Thorin answered, “I don’t know where.”

Bilbo lifted himself, rubbing his eyes. “He’s not too keen on others seeing him like that. Oh, well, we might as well go inside.”

When they managed to open the great doors—no easy feat between Bilbo’s height and Thorin’s injured shoulder—the Hobbit walked in as if he owned the place. Thorin was a little more hesitant. Beorn’s various animals immediately surrounded them. Sheep, goats, dogs and pigs sniffed at Thorin and nuzzled Bilbo, who wearily greeted each and every one.

“I didn’t think they’d remember me,” he smiled, petting as many heads as he could. Of course, Thorin remembered Bilbo had traveled back from Erebor with Beorn, along with the two wizards and . . . the pale man.

“We were only here for a few days,” Bilbo went on. “It was a welcome rest after crossing Mirkwood again. That will need changing.” And he pointed at Thorin’s makeshift bandage.

Carefully, Thorin removed his thick coat, shirt and chainmail. Bilbo somehow managed to heat up some water with a fire they had started in one of the smaller fireplaces. With it he cleaned the wound. Tearing up a thick table cloth—Bilbo was sure Beorn would understand—much better bandages were prepared. Soon Thorin’s arm was in a sturdier sling, and the open wound patched properly.

“There, much better!” Bilbo said relieved.

“Better tend to those as well,” Thorin said, his weary eyes set on Bilbo’s wrists.

The ropes the slavers had used cut deep and rubbed the flesh raw. Thorin’s own wrists had been protected by his leather wrist bands and gloves, and his feet with thick travel boots. Bilbo had not been so lucky, and his wrists and ankles were a terrible sight, bloody and sore. The Hobbit suddenly felt faint when he had a good look at them. He’d been so preoccupied with Thorin’s well-being, he hadn’t even noticed his own wounds.

“Oh, dear,” he whispered weakly. Thorin only had one good arm, but he used it to snap his friend out of his shock and brought the bowl of warm water closer. He managed to get Bilbo to submerge his wrists into the warm water. Thin streams of blood drifted in the water, and thick black blood crusted off his skin. Bilbo winced at the pain. Upon Thorin’s insistence he leapt up on the large wooden seat, and he helped him with the injuries on his feet.

Once they were clean, Bilbo bound them with some of the leftover bandages, and he instantly felt relief. There was a thick loaf of bread on the table, and plenty of butter and honey. They ate their fill, and drank deeply from a large pitcher of fresh goat’s milk.

After that, they finally let exhaustion take hold, and like two children who have finally found comfort after a great fright, they settled by the fire and fell into a deep sleep.

 

It was early evening when the great doors opened and Bilbo was awakened by heavy footfalls.

“Beorn,” he greeted the large figure stepping past the doorway. The scarred face held an affectionate smile, and the figure knelt on one knee as Bilbo rose to meet him.

“Little bunny is far from home,” he said.

“Really, Beorn, must you call me that?” Bilbo said, though he could not stop smiling. The giant’s gentle smile faded when he caught sight of the bandaged wrists and feet. “It doesn’t hurt,” Bilbo added quickly.

“They have met justice,” Beorn said, his voice deep and dangerous. “And it was swift.”

Bilbo gulped nervously, not really wanting to imagine what Beorn’s bear-self did to the surviving slavers. And a small part of him couldn’t help but agree that some form of justice was done.

Thorin too was awakened, and stood to greet his host.

“Oakenshield,” the giant head tilted in respect. “I did not think to see you in these parts again.”

“I find myself once again in your debt, master Beorn,” Thorin said, his tone earnest and grateful. “Fortune was with us that you should come upon us in our plight.”

“It was not fortune that brought me there,” the man said, rising to his feet. Both Bilbo and Thorin had to crank their necks to look up at him. “I was looking for you.”

The two turned to each other in doubt.

“Come, an old friend is eager to see you.”

 

Outside the enclosed garden was a vast field, where Beorn’s ponies and horses were free to roam and graze. It was known how precious they were to Beorn, and he loved all his animals as if they were his children. In the fading sunlight, Bilbo recognized one particular pony, which quickly trotted over.

“Myrtle!” Bilbo gasped as the pony pushed at him with her head. Bilbo’s joy at seeing her quickly faded into cold fear when he also saw Zirak, Nikerym, Eleni and Bitsy move away from the herd.

“How did they get here?” he faltered. Turning to look up at Beorn anxiously, he asked the one question he truly dreaded.

“Where are the others?!”

 

Beorn led them to the barn, close to the main house. He kept no animals in there, since most of them lived in his home or out in the fields. Instead, there were three beds made up of hay, and on each one, a pale figure was stretched out.

Bilbo froze at the sight.

“Estel,” he whispered, running towards the first figure. He did not stir. Bilbo moved towards the second. “Legolas . . . Nauro!” he exclaimed, kneeling down next to his friend.

The whole scene was eerie. The three were sickly pale, dark circles under their eyes, and their mouths set in a grim line. Were it not for the gentle rise and fall of their chests, the very faint sound of their breathing, Bilbo would have mistaken them for dead. No amount of shaking or noise would wake them. He set his hand on Nauro’s forehead.

“It’s like ice,” he said, more to himself. “His skin is always so cold, but not like this—”

Beorn and Thorin walked further into the room, the Dwarf looking over the three figures. “What happened?” he asked.

Bilbo moved between the three, feeling their hands and faces. “All of them. They’re so cold! Why are they so cold?” Bilbo said breathlessly, looking to Beorn desperate for answers.

“I do not know, but they will not wake,” the giant said in a sad voice.

 

“It was five days past,” Beorn told them, “when the she-elk came upon my herd. The horses and ponies came after. She spoke to me, urgently pleading that I find her master and his traveling companions. Elk speech is more difficult to understand than horse, but her fear was clear. I am also not entirely learned in bird speech, but I was able to send word out among them. To alert me if they came across any lost travelers. I found them by a creek in the lower valley, sleeping as you see them now.”

Bilbo clutched Nauro’s lifeless hand in his, trying to warm it. Thorin hovered over the other two sleeping figures, studying their grim pale faces.

“The she-Elk spoke of five travelers. Nauro would not have traveled without you, and I recognized the black pony as one trained for Dwarven mines. When I saw you were not with the others, I returned to scour the surrounding lands.”

Bilbo sighed heavily.

“They do not show any outward malady, but I am no healer,” Beorn went on. “I have sent word to Radagast to come as soon as possible. Perhaps he will be able to wake them. One thing I do not understand: Why did you part company with them?”

Bilbo looked to Thorin, in an almost accusing glare. The Dwarf held his gaze for a moment, then turned away in shame.

“It was a misunderstanding, that’s all,” Bilbo said.

“I see,” Beorn answered, though he could clearly see there was more to the tale. He did not question them further.

 

Waiting for any sign of Radagast was a new torment, and Beorn found himself with two very difficult houseguests. Bilbo would not leave the barn, tending to the three sleeping figures day in and out. Hoping against all hope they would wake. Thorin on the other hand would hardly stir from the outer wall of the vast garden, serving as lookout for the wizard.

Beorn was used to tending to animals, sometimes wounded or sickly. Tending to two stubborn worrywarts was another matter entirely. It meant taking meals to both of them, practically dragging the stubborn Dwarf back indoors at night—when the bear would keep watch—and carrying Bilbo’s exhausted self back from the barn.

All the while, the three slept away the days.

One morning, Bilbo resumed his watch, pressing warm compresses over the three’s foreheads, and piling blankets over them. He started speaking to them too, though he knew he must have sounded quite mad.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said to Legolas, while picking hay out of his hair, knowing the vain Elf would think himself a fright. “I think you should write to your father. Don’t lie to me either, I know you never respond to his letters. He’s clearly trying to reach you. Not to mention none of us would be here if he hadn’t given you Bitsy. You probably won’t find another loyal creature like her. And I know being apart from him weighs on your heart.”

“Speaking of which,” he went on, turning to Estel and replacing the warm compress over his head, “sometimes I think you’re far too keen on taking on the weight of the world. You’re far too young for that, my dear boy.”

“As for you,” he took his usual pose, sitting next to Nauro and clasping his hand, “you better not have forgotten our promise.” His pale face reminded him too much of the recurring nightmare of the cave, which sent shivers up his spine. Still he went on. “We are going back to Rivendell,” he said squeezing the hand, his voice determined. “Together—”

His hand was suddenly squeezed back in a deathly grip, and Bilbo gasped as Nauro’s eyes snapped open to reveal terrifying pupils, black as night.

“It’s dark inside,” a chilling voice whispered, slithering out of Nauro’s lips.

Bilbo blinked with fear. When he opened his eyes again, Nauro was sleeping soundly. There was no sign of him having woken up at all. And Bilbo’s hand was still holding a lifeless pale cold hand.

He shook his head. Perhaps he too was tired, and he simply imagined it.

The thought was pushed out of his mind when the barn door swung open. Beorn was there, with Thorin at his side, and a welcomed figure standing behind them.

“Radagast!” Bilbo said, leaping to his feet.

“Oh, good gracious,” the jittery wizard spoke, taking in the three figures before him, “this is not good. Not good at all . . .”

 

Bilbo waited, next to Thorin and Beorn, while Radagast mumbled to himself, pacing rapidly from one makeshift bed to the other. One shaking hand was held out over a sleeping figure, the other clutching his staff. Then he’d move that hand to another figure, and babbled nonsense.

“It’s a spell,” he finally said, loud enough for them to hear. “A dark one. A terrible one.”

“Who would do such a thing?” Bilbo asked. “And can you break it?”

“It’s cold,” the wizard went on, as if Bilbo hadn’t said anything. “It’s cold where they are—” Then Radagast whispered something that made Bilbo’s blood run cold.

“It’s dark inside.”

The Hobbit froze and went very pale. Thorin was concerned and caught him from faltering. It took Bilbo a moment to compose himself, enough to ask.

“What did you just say?”

“Hmm?” the wizard looked up, surprised. As if he only just realized they were standing there waiting. “Oh, nothing, nothing. Don’t mind me. Eh—time, time, need time.”

“Take all the time you need,” Thorin said, and his grip on Bibo’s shoulders tightened. He led him out of the barn, with Beorn following close behind.

That phrase, Bilbo wondered. The one from his dream, from Nauro’s own mouth. What did it mean? He wondered as they walked away from the barn, hearing distant chanting making its way past the wooden walls.

 


	32. The Dreams that Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trapped within the spell, someone is dreaming . . . or perhaps remembering . . .

 

Chapter 32: The Dreams that Come

 

He slept.

Slept soundly, on his well-earned bed. The gold coins slipping in between his scales. Jewels and steel deliciously cold against his skin.

But now, in the depths of his vast chamber, something else stirred.

_An intruder . . ._

He snarled, growling. It had been ages since anyone dared enter here and challenge him. Whoever it is, man or beast, it would not live long enough to regret it. He lazily lifted his long neck—no need to move any other limb—and hissed, his forked tongue liking the air and taking in every scent.

It wasn’t man.

Or beast.

He laughed. Deeply. Coins rumbled, precious stones slid down the great mountains of wealth.

“You are greatly lessened,” he said, setting his long neck back onto his prized bedding. “How the mighty have fallen.”

The shadow moved, flickering in and out of existence. He could not suppress another laugh at the pitiful display. _“How, indeed,”_ the shadow hissed, in Black Speech.

He had not heard the Black Tongue in almost centuries. It was just as grating as he remembered. He sighed dramatically.

“I would make some kind of threat for entering my domain, but it hardly seems worth it. One doesn’t bother threatening a fly after all.”

The shadow faded, but the voice spoke out. _“I highly doubt you could even kill a fly in your current state.”_

He growled, lifting his head, rearing his neck. “What did you say?!” he snarled.

The shadow danced along the walls, slithering on pillars. _“Your name . . . how it could once strike fear into the hearts of Elves, Men and . . .”_ A skull was crushed under an unseen foot. _“Dwarves, of course. If your foes were to see you now. Weak, lethargic—”_ the list went on, and every new word was answered with a deeper growl. _“Surely none would even quake at this sight. You have grown far too comfortable in your old age. It is, as you say, sad.”_

“You are fortunate you no longer have a body, insect!” He stood on his legs, a fire raging in his chest. “I would have been torn it to pieces!”

_“Words, words, words. Is that all you have?”_

“Tis more than what you have, insignificant worm! Not that you ever had much of anything! You were ever little more than a servant, doomed to follow in his master’s footprints. For all time.” A pleased purr rumbled deep in his chest, quenching the fire.

The shadow flickered once more. _“And here I come in friendship,”_ it spoke, in a voice that was dripping with mockery. _“And like a good guest, I do not come empty handed.”_

He considered this claim. “You want something, then.”

 _What fool would even dare try to bargain with me,_ he thought.

“And what could you possibly have to offer me?” was what he said.

The shadow then took shape. It was fleeting, and weak, but it was the shape of a man, tall and fair. It held out its hand, and it was empty, fading in and out in the darkness. Like smoke.

 _“The future . . .”_ the voice hissed.

Then the vast hall shifted. Columns cracked. The gold quivered and rattled and quaked.

Terrible pain imploded in his brain, and with a shriek that tore at his very throat, he fell to the ground, clutching his aching head. The pain was more than he could bear, and he writhed about kicking and thrashing and screaming. When he could open his eyes again, blinking past the pain, the vast hall was gone. There was no treasure, no gold or precious jewels. No tall columns with Dwarven craftsmanship. It was a cavern, empty and dark.

And he himself was no longer himself.

He was . . . less.

Small.

Naked in the dark.

The only thing that lingered from the previous reality was the shadowed shape, still retaining a man-like form.

“What is this?!” he cried out, reaching for the shadowed figure.

 _“This,”_ the voice spoke, and he was sure he could see a sickening grin spread across the fading face, _“is, what the Lord of Rivendell would call “a wall”.”_

 _Yes . . ._ a distant memory flited around the edge of his mind. A regal voice stating: _The memories are there, but they are dormant. Sealed behind a wall, as it were. But walls can be torn down._

_“But do not fear, old friend.”_

The figure knelt on one knee, bending low to the writhing figure, and icy thin breath became the very air around him.

_“It is time to return the hospitality. You are now my guest . . .”_

The pain struck anew, and he screamed again. Before he shut his eyes, the figure faded entirely and became one with the darkness. Not before whispering . . .

_“. . . walls can be torn down . . .”_

_“. . . walls crumble . . .”_

 


	33. Reunions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At last, the spell is lifted and friends meet again.

 

Chapter 33: Reunions

 

Bilbo’s leg shook nervously. It did not stop shaking, until Thorin’s heavy hand landed on his.

“Enough,” he all but ordered.

“Sorry,” Bilbo mumbled and went back to nibbling on his fingernails. He practically knocked over the heavy wooden stool he was on when Radagast stumbled through the tall doorway. “Well?” Bilbo asked.

“Hmm? Oh, yes, yes, very well, thank you.”

“They are?”

“Who?”

“They!”

“Why they?”

“What?!”

“What?”

“He’s asking about the others,” Thorin snarled impatiently.

“Oh, they they,” Radagast said, “yes, yes.” And the wizard sat himself heavily on a wooden stool and drank deeply from a large mug of milk.

“Yes, yes what?!” Bilbo snapped.

“Yes, they are fine,” he said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, his beard dripping with milk.

Bilbo scarcely had time to react to that statement when he heard familiar voices past the open doors. He ran outside, and smiled wide with relief. Estel and Legolas, supporting each other, were walking slowly and hesitantly. They both still looked weak but more importantly, awake!

“Bilbo!” Legolas exclaimed. Estel looked up and the Hobbit could have cried at the sight of his broad happy smile. He ran out to greet them.

“To my arms, Halfling!” the youth exclaimed, disentangling himself from Legolas’ hold and stumbling towards Bilbo. Laughing happily, he enveloped Bilbo in his arms and squeezed tight. The Hobbit was too relieved to mind.

“It is good to see you,” the Elf prince said, holding himself up, though the effort could clearly be seen in his sickly features.

“Oh, but I’ve seen plenty of you!” Bilbo answered, patting at Estel’s back. “And you’re just about to tip over. Come on, come in! Let’s get some food in you!”

When Estel stood, Bilbo looked past them, expecting Nauro to walk into view. But he didn’t.

“Where is Nauro?”

“Ah, yes, about that,” a jittery voice spoke behind him, and the wizard stood in the doorway nibbling on a piece of buttered bread. “I’m so dreadfully sorry, but that one is still a bit of a work in progress.”

Bilbo was heartbroken to hear that Nauro seemed to resist the healing incantation Radagast used to wake the others. Though the aged wizard was weary—and practically delirious from lack of sleep—he was confident his counter spell would eventually work. Still, he ushered the other two into Beorn’s house. The giant man had set places for them, with plenty of food and drink. Thorin, however, was nowhere to be seen.

When Bilbo saw his empty chair, he turned to Beorn questioningly. The keen eyes pointed at the back door, far on the other side of the long hallway. The Hobbit allowed himself to enjoy the image of the Dwarf King fleeing down the hall, clearly still not prepared to meet his former traveling companions just yet.

Legolas ate little, but drank plenty of fresh milk. Bilbo had to stop Estel from scarfing his food down too quickly.

“Go easy on your stomach!” he said, reaching for Estel’s arm.

“I would never come between you and your food!” the youth answered with a mouthful of bread and honey.

“Well, I’m glad being under a spell didn’t stifle your spirit,” Bilbo said fondly, his hand still resting on Estel’s arm. “You must tell us everything once you’ve recovered your strength.”

At this, the boy stopped devouring food and straightened up. “We’re not the only ones with a story to tell,” he said, looking right at the scars on Bilbo’s wrists.

He had completely forgotten about them! They had healed well enough under Beorn’s care, but the scars were still horrid to behold. Bilbo was about to move away, and cover them with his sleeve. Estel caught his arm and gently held it, regarding the bruises and scars. Legolas had risen from his seat and beheld the mangled wrist from over his friend’s shoulder. Their tired eyes grew dark.

“It—it doesn’t hurt, really! It’s practically healed—” Bilbo babbled nervously.

“If I ever get my hands on that Dwarf . . .” Estel started, gritting his teeth.

“What?! No, Thorin didn’t do this!”

“You don’t have to defend him, Bilbo!” Estel snapped, the bags under his eyes marring his fair face. “He bloody kidnapped you!”

“Well, yes, but—”

“We would have found you sooner only he led us on a wild chase! And then we tried to cut him off on the mountain pass but—Agh! I could rip his head off!”

“Now, let’s not be hasty—”

“Fortune seemed to elude us,” Legolas chimed in. “But we did not lose hope. Of course, it was only a matter of time before you escaped. Tell us, how did you get away?”

Bilbo’s mind went blank. Desperate for help, he turned to Beorn and to Radagast. The wizard only further buried his face into a thick mug, and the giant shrugged with disinterest.

“A ha haaa,” Bilbo chuckled nervously, “well, actually, I . . . sort of . . . didn’t.”

The two froze at this, and stared at Bilbo piercingly.

“What?” Estel grunted.

“Thorin is . . . sort of . . . as it were . . . here.”

The two gaped.

“Now.”

A moment of pause as the information was duly processed in their tired minds.

_**“WHAAAAAAAAAAT!?!?”** _

 

It took some time for Bilbo to calm the two down—no easy task as it involved at one point latching onto Estel’s waist to stop him from scouring the entire homestead to find the offending Dwarf. Fortunately, both man and Elf were still exhausted, their bodies weak from immobility, so Bilbo was able to coerce them back to their seats and tell them his story. Once he had finished, the two were silent. Beorn and Radagast stared at them expectantly. Bilbo was patient.

“Hmph,” Estel finally huffed. “After all the fuss he made over stopping to help others, and then he nearly gets you killed by stopping to help others.”

“We made that decision together, Estel.” He huffed again. “So, there you have it,” Bilbo concluded. “Thorin didn’t hurt me. He made a mistake. He’s paid for it, so there’s no need to—you know—rip anyone’s head off.” He looked to Estel at this.

“And now I would like to hear your story.”

“There is nothing to tell,” Legolas said. “Once we reached the Lower Valley there was some kind of presence that stalked our every step. The last thing I remember is drinking from a stream. The water was . . . strange. Alluring.”

“That’s where the spell was cast, no doubt,” Radagast mumbled, licking gobs of honey from his fingertips.

“Perhaps it was connected to a Mirkwood stream, or something. I don’t know, I’m too tired to think . . .” Estel’s voice trailed off as he rested his head against the table.

“Yes, perhaps you should rest,” Bilbo said, leaping off his seat.

“Rest?! All we’ve done is rest! For days—”

“But you’re still not fully recovered,” the Halfling pressed. “Besides, there’s still one more patient left.”

 

So the wait began anew. Estel and Legolas made steady recovery, though their strength was greatly lessened. They continued to sleep in their beds of hay, waiting along with Bilbo for Nauro to wake.

Radagast worked hard, with various incantations and treatments, but there was no response.

Beorn continued to be a gracious host. Thorin remained out of sight.

Estel awoke one morning feeling much stronger. More than anything, he was tired of feeling tired.

“Morning, Bilbo,” he yawned. “I can’t take much more of this lying down! Maybe I’ll try tracking Thorin again and see how long he avoids me. That was fun!”

He snickered, but stopped when he noticed Bilbo hadn’t even reacted to him. He was sitting next to Nauro, still clasping his hand.

“You should have seen him,” Estel said softly. “He wouldn’t stop. Not even to breathe. When we’d force him to stop, it almost drove him mad.”

Bilbo’s anxious gaze dropped the lifeless long hand in his.

“I think that might mean he cares,” Estel joked. Bilbo laughed a little.

“Did you dream?” he asked, turning to look at Estel. “Do you remember dreaming, when you were like this?”

The youth’s fair face grew dark, and he shuddered at a memory. “Yes,” he said, his voice so low Bilbo hardly dared breathe. “But I don’t want to talk about it.”

There was silence, though the Hobbit fought with himself from pressing further.

 

The dark cavern was endless. Not that he dared venture another step into the dark. He simply knew there was no end to this. He sat, his arms hugging his legs to him.

The pain in his head had subsided; the crippling pain that came with strange chanting, in the voice of an old man. The chanting still lingered, echoing faintly from the high walls of the cavern. At least, there was only a dull throb in his head now, but no pain.

“I know you’re there.”

The shadow, now one with the darkness that surrounded him, was still there. He could feel it.

Watching him.

Mocking him.

Waiting . . .

“What for?”

Smoke-like haze hovered before him, as if about to take shape. A vague disembodied head tilted to one side, as if questioningly.

“What are you waiting for?” he asked, weary of his isolation and fear. “Just tell me.”

The haze did not take form, but rather dissipated back into the dark.

“TELL ME!!!” he screamed, but there was no answer.

And no echo.

He breathed in and out desperately, feeling the air around him growing thin. It was then that he realized the aged voice chanting had ceased. There was another voice dancing off of the rocks overhead. It spoke no discernable words. It only danced about in a strange rhythm.

The darkness seemed to disperse, dim light pouring in. He had to shield his eyes from it.

When he opened them again, it was to see high wooden beams lit up by morning light.

 

The steady monotonous breathing changed. Bilbo turned at this, feeling the pale hand shifting. Nauro was struggling to open his eyes. Bilbo sat up, placing his hands on Nauro’s shoulders and shaking him. A little too eagerly, perhaps.

“Nauro?” he cried out, a little too loud. “Nauro! Wake up! Open your eyes!”

The eyes shot open, but the gaze was lost. For a moment, Bilbo was afraid Nauro was going to answer again in a trance, speaking those dreaded words then slipping back into sleep. But his eyes traced his surroundings, then settled on Bilbo. The Hobbit held his breath. There was no reaction in the pale man’s face.

“About time!” Bilbo started, trying to sound cheerful. “Really, what time do you call this for a nap—”

He didn’t finish, as he was instantly enveloped in a tight embrace. Two long arms wrapped around him, pressing him hard against a long thin frame. One hand cradled the back of his head, pressing his face further against a long neck.

“OOF!” Bilbo gasped, trying to pull his head out of the shirt’s fabric. “Easy! Can’t . . . breathe!”

There was no answer, and the arms did not let up. If anything, they only squeezed him harder. For the first time, Bilbo caught himself thinking how warm his friend felt.

“You’re here,” a shaking voice whispered over his head.

Bilbo could have wept for joy at the sound of that voice. As best he could, in that awkward pose, he hugged back.

“We’re here,” he answered.

 


	34. Journey On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A decision is made to continue the journey. Not all are happy with the news . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm aliiiiiive! Sorry for lack of updates, but I was away all last week and now final weeks are starting up. It might be hard to post stuff in the coming weeks (hence the reeeeally short chapters) but I'll do my best to keep at it!

 

Chapter 34: Journey On

 

The late morning sun beat down mercilessly on the vast valley.

Beorn was busy tending to his horses and ponies, while Thorin was testing his shoulder’s recovery. The wound was deep, but as he flexed and moved his arm about, life was returning to the stiff limb. It would be some time before it could stand the weight of his sword, so he’d taken these days to practice with the left. Not as good perhaps, but it would have to do.

He suddenly paused at his practice, the pain in his shoulder reminding him of the slavers’ words.

“What do you know of Rangers?” he asked the giant man. Beorn was feeding one of the younger colts from a water skin, but he paused his task to look the Dwarf King in the eye.

“Where did you hear of them?”

“Those slavers,” Thorin said, hate coating his words at the memory of those vile beings. “They were afraid of something. In their haste to hide, they were careless. It’s how we escaped, catching them off guard. I overheard them speak of Rangers. Who are they?”

The colt nuzzled at Beorn’s hands, and despite his affectionate touch upon the little thing, the man’s eyes were dark. “When Arnor fell, the Men of the West were scattered,” he began, “the Rangers are their descendants. Sons of Númenor who have sworn to protect Middle Earth and keep the evil from the East at bay. All those of dark deeds would do well to fear them.”

“Why have I not heard of them before?” Thorin’s interest was piqued.

“They keep to the wild, unseen, protecting the borders,” the fierce eyes looked to the surrounding woods. “I believe they rely on being unknown, keeping a reputation of fear and mystery.”

“The surviving orcs from the Battle of the Five Armies often spoke of what their leaders promised them. A new age. A new time for the Orcs,” the Dwarf King took a few steps closer. “If there are such plans coming from the East, these men would be valuable allies. Where can they be found?”

The colt leapt, full and content, back to the field where the other horses grazed. Beorn rose to his feet, and spoke softly; “I do not know.”

Eager but soft steps were heard, and Bilbo appeared from behind the large barn. He was smiling, but Thorin quickly recognized the nervous fidgeting fingers at his sides.

“Ready?” he asked.

Thorin sighed with exasperation. He was not.

 

Bilbo marched Thorin to Beorn’s Hall, where the others were waiting at the table. The giant man followed close behind.

It was indeed the first time Thorin would face the others. He had avoided them so far. It was only at Bilbo’s request everyone was being so civil.

It was to be a very tense reunion.

They all sat, the loaf and honey Beorn had put out remained untouched. Nauro, Legolas and Estel sat on one side of the table, like a jury. And like a jury, their gaze was harsh and judgmental when the Dwarf took a seat. Estel unconsciously cracked his knuckles when Bilbo sat next to him.

“Alright,” Bilbo said, placing his hands flat on the table, “let’s just get this all out in the open. What happened was—unfortunate. And dangerous. And unnecessary. And completely idiotic but we’re getting off track!” He stopped his own rambling and resumed his diplomatic tone. “It happened. It’s over. We are all safe and sound and more importantly, together again.”

The silence that followed was thick. Thorin did not meet anyone’s eyes, while all eyes were accusingly set upon him.

“Soooo,” Bilbo concluded awkwardly, “. . . we can move on.”

There was no response. Not too subtly, he nudged at Thorin’s arm. In typical Thorin fashion, he rose to his feet, cleared his throat and spoke. “Forgive me. It was a—rash decision.” Estel scoffed loudly at this. Thorin went on. “My actions led you all into peril. That alone is . . . unforgivable,” the last word spoken was aimed at Bilbo. The Hobbit half smiled and squeezed his arm reassuringly. Thorin sat back down.

Estel’s eyebrows shot upwards. “That’s it?” he exclaimed, throwing his arms out. “Just— _“Sorry, my mistake_ ”?!”

“Estel . . .” Bilbo mumbled.

“Are we to simply forget you abducted our friend?!” the youth sat up in an outrage. “Of course, an apology will just make it all alright! You should be in chains! Bloody coward.” He sat back down, grumbling the last words.

“Estel!”

“Mind your tongue, boy,” Thorin said, finally meeting his gaze.

“Boy!? Nauro, are you going to kill him or should I?” Estel nudged his friend next to him. Nauro showed no reaction in his face.

“You dare threaten me!”

“I dare a lot more than that, shorty!”

“WHAT DID YOU CALL ME?!”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Your Royal Shortness!”

Two stools were instantly knocked over as the lanky youth booked to the outside garden and the fuming Dwarf King sprinted after him.

“What?! Am I not forgiven!” the youth taunted, but was soon overcome. The two wrestled on the ground, awkward blows thrown and bits of grass flying around them. Both Nauro and Beorn followed, yet made no attempt to stop their foolishness.

Bilbo stayed at the threshold, rubbing his eyes with frustration.

“Aren’t you going to stop them?” Legolas asked, amusement in his tone.

“Unavoidable. They might as well get it out of their systems now,” Bilbo shrugged, and went on watching the ridiculous spectacle. The Elf prince’s gaze, however, was on his small friend.

“You’re still going with him,” he said, leaning against the doorway, his realization followed by a sigh of defeat. Bilbo looked up at him, sheepishly.

“I don’t expect you to understand, and I most certainly don’t expect you to go on.”

“But you most certainly don’t think we’d let you go alone.”

Bilbo paused at this, remembering the very reason for Thorin’s actions. If there was any worth to their unfortunate detour with the slavers, it was to remind Bilbo of his own abilities, without his friends’ protection. Though he was not sure he could express this without sounding ungrateful.

“I am not a warrior, Legolas. And I never will be,” he said, with such determination it made the Elf prince turn surprised. “Yet I am still capable of more than any of you think.”

Legolas’ surprise turned to understanding. “I know that, Bilbo,” he said softly, placing a firm hand on Bilbo’s shoulder.

A cry from Estel drew their attention. The futile wrestling match continued, with Beorn and Nauro as unimpressed watchers.

“Nauro, don’t just stand there!” Estel cried out. “Get him!”

Legolas laughed softly at this. “I’ll handle Estel,” he said, his eyes pointing at Nauro’s pale form. “You’d better tell _him_.”

 

Once they managed to separate the two stubborn wrestlers— and left them tending to fresh new cuts and bruises— Bilbo pulled Nauro aside.

They did not walk far, merely to the edge of the enclosed garden. Nauro was still very weak, his body not fully recovered from the long slumber. He had not spoken of the visions he had seen, and after seeing Estel and Legolas’ own hesitance at mentioning the dreams that haunted them in that unnatural sleep, Bilbo did not question him.

Now they sat on the fresh grass, surrounded by large wild flowers and even larger bees. The Hobbit was fidgeting again, rehearsing in his mind how he would break the news to his friend. As it turned out, he didn’t have to say a single word. In the fashion of their silent conversations, with one look, Nauro knew what was coming.

 _Really?_ His weary grimace told Bilbo, who only shrugged in response.

“I’ve said this before, but in light of what happened to you—”

“I’m not leaving,” Nauro interrupted with finality. Bilbo knew better than to argue, though he was still deeply concerned about his friend’s health. His fears were left unsaid, though the awkward silence that followed seemed to express them in spite of him.

“I think—” Nauro started, his voice hesitant. Bilbo turned to look at him. “I think I remembered something.”

“You did? What was it?” he asked eagerly.

The memory of the cavern beat in his mind, so much Nauro nearly forgot it was daytime, and instead of being isolated in a deep chamber of rock, he was free, outside under strong sunlight.

“I know you want me to remember . . .” he would not meet Bilbo’s gaze as he spoke. Instead he stared at his hands, the long fingers that shook slightly with weariness. “Remember who I was before. But, Bilbo, I don’t think I was a good—”

A flash from his visions, the sensation of his true body . . . _monstrous_ . . .

“A good man before,” he said at last. “I know you hoped I’d remember and everything would be fine but—”

Bilbo shook his head. “I only wanted you to remember because I feared you had family out there looking for you. I’d never want you to be anyone other than yourself.”

“Then let me stay,” Nauro suddenly looked directly into Bilbo’s eyes.

“If I am good now, it is because of you. It’s why I can’t, and I won’t, be parted from you.”

Bilbo was moved, and a thousand responses flooded his mind. He wanted to tell him what their friendship meant. Tell him he should come to the Shire and finally let go of that past life. Tell him everything . . . Instead, all that came out was a soft smile.

“Hrm!” he cleared his throat and awkwardly mumbled, “Yes. Right. Good.”

Nauro returned the smile, and a wave of drowsiness came over his eyes. In spite of the sun, a soothing cool breeze fell on the valley. Nauro let it wash over him, and his whole body craved rest. Returning to his usual cat-like manner, he settled on his side, curling his long body along the soft grass. Before Bilbo could tell him to go back indoors and lie on a proper bed, the pale man was sound asleep, practically as soon as his head met the ground.

Bilbo grabbed hold of his shoulder and started to shake him. “Don’t sleep here, you fool! Come on!” he said, but stopped. There was no unnatural hue to Nauro’s skin, as there had been under the spell. There was no discomfort in his features, brought on by ill dreams. There was ease and peace. His head was close enough to Bilbo’s lap.

The Hobbit transferred his hand from the shoulder to the unruly black curls and let it rest there.

Any moment of peace was welcome, for who knows what lay ahead.

 


	35. An Unsettling Start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not the best of starts, I fear.

 

Chapter 35; An Unsettling Start

 

Estel was not as easy to convince.

His anger towards the Dwarf King was renewed every time the two met, despite Bilbo’s attempts to keep them apart. Their squabbles were never too serious, since Estel’s strength had not fully returned and Thorin had no intention of harming the passionate youth. But Bilbo was overly aware that some peace needed to be reached, and soon. Beorn valued his privacy, and though he was a generous soul, it was clear he was done hosting. They had invaded his home long enough.

It finally came down to explicitly telling Estel that he could either swallow his pride and join them or he could return to Rivendell alone. The boy ranted and raved and pouted, but ultimately agreed.

Thorin too agreed, though he was not looking forward to the journey ahead with three companions who mistrusted him. While tensions were still high, he did his best to stay out of their way.

The day of departure came at last. No one was as eager to see the travelers on their way as Beorn was. He and Bilbo tended to the mounts, while the others fetched their provisions and packs from the stable.

It was in this moment, while Bilbo was out of sight, that Estel caught hold of Thorin’s arm.

“Bilbo may trust you but I don’t!” he said through grit teeth. “You try anything like that again and I will make you sorry!”

“Estel,” Legolas spoke, soft yet stern. He pulled his friend away, and Estel followed begrudgingly. Before they walked off, the Elf still turned round and glared intensely at the Dwarf. “I will be watching you,” he declared, loud enough for the Dwarf to hear.

Thorin heaved a deep breath. He couldn’t stop himself thinking he liked them better when they slept the days away.

A thought quickly interrupted when he realized the pale man had been standing quietly in a corner of the stable, watching. At an unnatural speed, he was suddenly standing in front of Thorin, mere inches away. It took every ounce of the Dwarf’s will not to step back, and every bit of his pride not to show unease at the proximity.

Storm grey eyes glinted at him, with great intensity and ferocity.

“You’ve made an enemy of me,” a deep voice rumbled dangerously.

Thorin wasn’t sure if it was a trick of the light, but the eyes seemed to shift somehow.

“You touch him again,” the deep voice went on, “no help will save you from me.”

Gold.

That was the color Thorin thought he saw flash in but a millisecond, within the stranger’s eyes. Black slits, like those of a cat.

Or rather . . . a snake.

Just as quickly as he’d thought he’d seen them turn to gold and black, they were back to their original eerie grey. As the towering creature turned away, Thorin convinced himself he merely imagined it.

The threat, however, he believed wholeheartedly.

 

Once the mounts were saddled and ready, the group ventured out into the vast valley. Both Beorn and Radagast went along to see them off. The giant walked next to Legolas and Bitsy, his giant hand patting the side of her long neck. He had grown fond of the Elk, and regretted having to let her go.

“Keep heading North West,” he said to Legolas, though his keen eyes remained on the Elk. “Keep to the edge of the woods. The lands there are secure.”

“It’ll be faster if we head back to the mountains,” the Elf countered.

“Your beast is loyal to you, Thranduil’s son, but she is indebted to me,” Beorn said, with a strange knowing smile. “She will keep to the edge, five days at the most. Then you may choose your own path.”

Legolas bent low to Beorn, and made several oaths of honor and debt. Estel followed suit, but Beorn merely brushed them off with his hand. He was not one for propriety. He did however bid a very fond farewell of Bilbo and Nauro, bending on one knee to meet their gaze.

“Travel safe,” he said to them both, then placed a heavy hand on Nauro’s shoulder. “Little Bunny’s looking thin. Watch over him.” Then he laughed raucously at Bilbo’s outrage, and even more so by the Halfling’s indignant squawk after having his hair ruffled by a hand nearly twice the size of his own head. Nauro smiled, but it was clear he took the phrase to heart.

It was common knowledge that Beorn hated Dwarves, but he had formed an unlikely friendship with Oakenshield. While the others were getting ready to leave, he had pulled the Dwarf King aside and spoken long with him. Thorin had bowed low in respect, and the bear of a man bowed back.

Bilbo approached the fidgeting wizard alone, and offered his hand. The wild old man examined it as if it was a foreign concept.

“I can’t thank you enough,” Bilbo said, his hand still suspended in mid-air. The wizard took it tentatively. Once both hands had made contact, he gripped Bilbo’s tightly and pulled him close. The Hobbit was about to protest, but then he saw the wizard’s face had changed greatly. His eyes were gone, as if he were lost in a trance.

“Don’t get too close,” he said in a far off voice. “It’s dark inside.”

Bilbo looked around to make sure no one else had heard the dreaded words, then spoke urgently; “I’ve heard those words before. Many times. What do they mean?”

“I do not know,” the old man said, his voice restored to its usual twitchy tone. “I saw things. Things the spell conjured from their hearts, and used to torment their minds. I saw a cavern, vast and deep.”

Bilbo felt his heart freeze at this. Could it be it was the same cavern from his own dream?

“He was there,” the wild eyes looked to Nauro’s distant form. Bilbo couldn’t stop himself looking as well, frightened for his friend. “He wasn’t alone,” Bilbo looked back to the wizard as he went on. “Something moved in the shadows. Something . . . terrible.”

The grip on his hand lessened, and instead became an awkward gesture of comfort, though Bilbo could not be comforted.

“The words, I believe, are meant for you,” Radagast said in an urgent voice. “Heed them. Do not take this lightly.”

The Hobbit nodded. A sense of cold dread settled in his chest. And even as they rode away from Beorn’s valley, the giant and the strange wizard fading into the distance, he felt as if a shadow followed their every step.

How dark the morning suddenly seemed.

 


	36. Theft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An intruder in Erebor steals a precious prize.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reeeeeeally short chapter. Sorry, guys!

 

Chapter 36; Theft

 

The bells rang in alarm.

Fierce Dwarf warriors sped down the vast halls of Erebor, armed with axes and blades.

Torches were lit, and great cries of distress echoed from the high crafted ceilings.

Soon, in spite of the late hour, every soul was awakened.

“What is it?” Fili demanded when he entered the Hall of Kings. Every member of the King’s council was there, and his most trusted soldiers. Balin turned, his face weary and haggard. Two bodies lay on the floor, covered by thin sheets.

“Were the attackers caught?” the young Dwarf prince asked, rage tainting his words. “They will pay dearly for this.”

“None were found, my lord,” a soldier said. “And there’s no trace of an intruder.”

Fili furrowed his brow in confusion. _How could that be?_

“Is it possible it was one of our own?”

“I don’t think so, lad,” Balin said.

The fear in his eyes was palpable. He pointed at the two bodies. Fili knelt down and lifted one of the sheets. The sight of what was left made his blood run cold. He held back the shock and bile, long enough to study the body’s armor— as the face was unrecognizable.

“He was a guard,” he said.

“As was the other,” Balin said gravely. “Guards of the western wing.”

Fili looked up, his eyes wide.

“The Arkenstone—”

The old Dwarf shook his head.

“Gone.”

 


	37. The Darkest Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey continues, but the travelers are wary. And perhaps . . . rightly so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’M ALIIIIIIIIVE!!!! Hello, everyone (those who have not given up on me!). I am so sorry it took me so long to get back to this. Life happened (mainly job overload, visiting family, traveling and going back into job overload, haha). But I’m back, and hopefully back on schedule!
> 
> So, I know I make the Ringwraiths much more powerful than they are in the books or even the film. I guess it’s not really much of a spoiler (and probably some of you guessed it) but the one wraith stalking them is the Witch King. Mostly, I’m playing around with the idea that the Witch King of Angmar is in fact some kind of Witch and can use illusions and such to torment people.

 

Chapter 37: The Darkest Day

 

The dreams held answers.

The dark cavern held his memories.

If he chose to venture further into the darkness, he would remember.

The wall would be torn down.

The key was to stay in the light.

The strange thing was, Nauro no longer felt afraid of his memories. The voice he had long dreaded no longer posed a threat. Somehow, he felt a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He had seen a glimpse of his past life, and there was no future in it. A monstrous body, a mind consumed with death and destruction, a heart that knew nothing but pride and greed. His home a lifeless cavern, and the one companion in sight a spectral presence who offered only further corruption and wickedness.

He had no desire to return to that life. Nauro thought this as he stared at a star filled sky. It had been over a week since they left Beorn’s home, and every waking day drove the visions from the enchanted sleep further away. Though they were wary of their new road, they had encountered no danger and no other travelers.

They had set up camp in an open field. Despite the relatively peaceful trek, Legolas still insisted they took turns keeping watch at night. Nauro had volunteered the first watch, since there was no sleep in him. He enjoyed the silence and basked in the cool night air. The stars were beautiful, and unhindered by any clouds or trees they lit up the world about him.

_Stay in the light._

He was suddenly reminded of all the songs the Elves would sing of starlight. Though his heart could not shake off the innate mistrust he held for Elves, he could appreciate the beauty of their voices and the truth in their songs. Especially now as he felt peace enough to truly look at the stars and bathe in their light.

The dying fire from the Dwarf’s separate camp caught his eye. Yes, since the start of their new journey, Thorin had maintained his distance, riding several feet behind and setting up camp separately. Bilbo had tried to make peace between them all, but Nauro had no issue with this arrangement.

He realized he’d been humming. He never bothered to learn the Elvish language, but he remembered the songs. One in particular he heard Lady Arwen singing once, in the Hall of Fire. The humming rumbled deep in his throat, and felt almost as soothing as the chill air and the light from the stars.

 

The next morning, the travelers took their time in heading out. There was a strange sense of leisure they allowed themselves to feel, and the relative peace they had experienced thus far was welcomed. Bilbo was grateful for it. Now if he could only get his stubborn friends to stop being . . . well, stubborn.

He walked over to Thorin’s separate camp, fully aware of how Nauro, Legolas and Estel all simultaneously froze in their tasks to watch him go.

Thorin had finished washing his face, the cold water shedding any lingering sleep.

“We’ll be following the path Beorn set,” Bilbo said, “unless you have any objections.” Thorin shook his head, and went on preparing for the day. “Is this to be our journey, then?” Bilbo shrugged, his hands deep in his pockets. “Two companies on the same road.”

“It would seem so,” Thorin answered gravely.

“Give them time,” Bilbo said. “I’m sure it will pass.”

Thorin glanced at the bigger camp, locking eyes with the tall man’s. “I’m sure,” he mumbled.

Bilbo lingered awkwardly for a moment, then turned to leave. But there was something he couldn’t help but wonder.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” he said, turning round again, “what did Beorn tell you?”

Thorin stopped in his task, and smiled sadly, his voice low with doubt. “He said he was sure I was going to find what I was looking for.”

 

The days passed at a languid pace, as if the very sun was being dragged across the sky, and its grey lifeless light betrayed its hesitance.

Despite the peace in the journey so far, Bilbo couldn’t help but feel uneasy. There were no signs of danger. Indeed, there were hardly any signs of life at all. No birds. No insects. No rustling in the brush, or stirring in the high trees.

Nothing.

Perhaps it was Thorin’s exile from the company, or the unanswered riddle of the spell. He didn’t know. All he did know was that something compelled him to look over his shoulder continually. A cold feeling at the back of his neck. He felt as if he was holding his breath, just before plunging into icy cold water. Like he was just waiting for something cold and dark to swallow them up.

He did not have to wait long.

A murky morning dawned. Clouds weighed heavily overhead, thick with rain and muffled thunder. What lighting could permeate the clouds seemed dulled and weak. The travelers’ going was just as weak. Their energy spent, even the mounts struggled with every step. There was no laugher, and very few words were spoken.

In the strange haze, Bilbo realized that the few words spoken all came from Estel, asking Legolas how long until they rested.

Then he realized, the boy had asked that question three times. And the Elf had answered, as if unaware of having answered before.

Bilbo looked to Nauro. He did not seem to have noticed either. He did not seem to be present at all. His gaze was distant and lost. It was difficult to concentrate on his thoughts. Maybe he’d imagined it all. He let his own gaze wander about the passing land. The flowers also looked lifeless and dulled in the grey light.

“Need more sunlight,” he mumbled softly.

“I agree, mister Bilbo sir!” Shocked, he turned to see Hamfast trudging towards him.

Good old Hamfast, in the flesh! Walking towards him, his sleeves rolled up and rough hands ready for the day’s work.

Of course, Bilbo thought as he looked around his garden. His flowers were usually so lively and bright. Why did they now look so dull? And why was he so shocked to see Hamfast? Bilbo felt a wave of nostalgia, as if he had not seen the chap in years! Strange feeling . . .

“What do you reckon then, mister Bilbo? P’raps we can move ‘em out of the shade?”

“Yes, I think that will be best,” he answered, turning back towards the struggling flowers.

“What will?” Hamfast’s thick voice changed. Bilbo turned his head back to him, only he wasn’t there. Nauro was staring at him confused.

Bilbo shook his head and shut his eyes. Why did he think he was back in the Shire? It had been so real . . .

“Is it much farther?” Estel asked once again. Only this time, Legolas pulled Bitsy to a stop and sat up tense and wary.

“Something’s wrong,” he spoke, passing a shaking hand over his eyes. “I—I can’t think—there’s something wrong!”

“Yes,” Nauro answered, in a sloth voice. “It’s like there’s a haze over my eyes.”

They all pulled to a stop, looking about and fumbling with words. Cobwebs seemed to be strewn about their minds, muddling their thoughts.

Bilbo turned to see if he could signal Thorin, but there was no sign of the Dwarf King.

It was then that the darkness fell.

 

Thorin had lost sight of something. But what, he couldn’t quite remember.

 _But it was important,_ his addled mind tried to tell him.

For the life of him he could not remember why he was alone, unattended, in a lonely unknown path. Where was he going? And what was he expecting to find up ahead?

Or was it “who” was he expecting?

Confusion flitted about him like gnats in summer. He started swatting at the air around him, trying the clear the foggy sight before him.

“Thorin?” Fili’s voice broke through his thoughts.

Thorin looked up from his writing desk. He must have dozed off. A warm fire burned. Scrolls were strewn about, and an ink bottle was dangerously close to tipping over. Fili’s hand rested on his shoulder, the fire revealing the young prince’s concerned features.

“Ah, Fili,” he cleared his throat and gathered some of the writings. “Be sure these are sent out. Dain will be expecting them.”

“But, uncle, I’m not Fili.”

Thorin blinked and looked again. Of course, past the thick shadows of the room, it was clearly Kili standing there, his dark hair nearly covering his dark eyes.

“I said Kili,” Thorin grumbled, “you just misheard me.”

“Kili isn’t here, uncle.”

He looked again, only to find Fili standing there, grim and tall.

Of course, Kili can’t be here.

_Here?_

He blinked again, shutting his eyes long and hard. “Here” was not his chamber in Erebor. It was the lone path, and the eerie feel lingered.

 _There is some trickery about,_ Thorin thought to himself. The illusion had been far too real!

But where were the others?

Zhirak became restless, but would go no further. Though his movements were sluggish, Thorin managed to tether the pony to a tree and made to catch up to the others on foot. He was relieved there were no more strange visions, but there was still a strange fog clouding his sight. He roughly pressed his knuckles into his eyes, then opened them again.

It was as if he hadn’t opened them at all . . .

 

“I can’t see!”

The cobwebs that had slowed their minds thickened into a black veil. The four companions’ eyes were wide open, but a terrible darkness blinded them.

“Legolas! I—I can’t see!” Estel fell from his horse in a panic.

Just as blind, the Elf prince stumbled from his antsy mount. Bilbo was too afraid to move, balancing awkwardly on Myrtle’s back. He kept waving his hands over his eyes in the hope of seeing something. Anything! He gasped in shock as he was yanked off of the saddle, only to find himself locked in a bone crushing embrace.

“Nauro?! Is that you?” Bilbo asked, pawing at the long arms wrapped around him.

“Hmph,” Nauro grunted in return, his hold on Bilbo tightening.

“Can you see anything?”

“No.”

As soon as the blindness had set, Nauro leapt from Eleni and— while his memory was still fresh— grabbed hold of Bilbo and stood ready for an attack. He would not lose him again!

In his tense stance, he shut his eyes. They were of no use either way. It was no good bumbling in the dark, so he stood stock still and focused on his other senses. A scent assaulted his nostrils, one that stood out from the various herbs, foliage, horse hair and his companions. This scent carried hints of worn moth-eaten cloth. Thick woven strands caked with all sorts of mud and feces and moss. There was something else beneath the foul smelling cloth. Something more hidden, but recognizable none the less.

Death.

“Can you smell it?” Nauro asked, turning his head roughly in the direction he had last seen the Elf.

“Yes,” Legolas’ voice came from the ground. He was kneeling next to Estel, who was frozen in terror at the loss of his sight. “It’s the same presence that haunted us in the Lower Valley!”

“What?!” Bilbo asked in fear. “You mean whoever put the spell on you?”

“Come back to finish the job, then!” Estel said, trying hard to sound brave, but a tremor in his voice still betrayed his fear. “Play fair, you bastard!” he suddenly shouted, and from the change in the voice’s direction, Nauro knew he was now standing. “You want a fight! Fine! Give us back our sight, you coward!”

“Estel, don’t! Stay close,” Legolas’ own fear could be heard in his deceptively calm tone.

“Brave man, fighting against blind men!”

“It’s no man,” Nauro practically snarled.

He could feel Bilbo shiver in his arms. Legolas said something, but Nauro could barely hear it. He sounded as if he was miles away.

“Legolas?” Bilbo called out.

A faint distant answer came, unintelligible.

“Estel!”

Another call answered, just as far only in the opposite direction.

The mounts, who up until then had remained on the road fretting uneasily, were also gone.

“What is happening?!” Bilbo whispered, horror tightening his throat.

They were alone, blind, and lost.

 _Let’s not make it so easy,_ the voice in the dark whispered to Nauro. And for once, he agreed.

Tucking the frightened Hobbit under his arm, as one would a rolled up blanket, he made his way slowly into the thickets. He hushed Bilbo’s questions, telling him to keep quiet, and despite having more weight to his foot falls, he moved as slowly and stealthy as possible.

Even with the loss of his sight, he still maneuvered his way through the woods with uncanny accuracy. It was as if, through scent and sound, he could still see. Branches, however thick or thin, gave out a distinct damp chill. Every leaf had its own scent and taste betraying their position, whether high above them or strewn about the ground. He found he rather enjoyed this strange sensibility to the world.

Until he heard it.

No footsteps, no breathing. It was cloth rustling, twigs snapping as they’re caught in the thick strands of a travel cloak. The same tattered cloak he remembered seeing at the creek that day.

It was close.

 


	38. A Light in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What lurks in the dark?

Chapter 38: A Light in the Dark

 

Legolas was no healer, and he never really sought out any of his people’s teachings in the craft. Still, he had to try. He sat himself on the ground and breathed deeply. Then he looked long and hard within himself, trying to find that hidden strength. Perhaps he could heal the damage the spell had wrought. Perhaps he could recover his sight.

He could feel the strength, the grace of the Eldar, like a separate heartbeat. It’s light spreading through his body, offering warmth and energy. It coursed within his veins. It did not return his sight, but it did stay his fear. A sense of clarity made him stand, and stand tall.

Whatever threat awaited in the forest, confident in his helplessness, would meet a fight. His bow and arrows were gone along with Bitsy, but he still had a long dagger that he kept under his cloak. This he clutched in his hand, and not without hesitations, he ventured forward, to find his companions. To find his charge.

The first attack came from his left. Even in his blindness, he retaliated, and was able to dodge coming attacks. As far as he could tell, there were two attackers.

Their footfalls made no sound, and when he demanded answers they did not respond. All he could sense was their cold icy breath when they came near, and the near sting of their long blades.

 

Estel was unprepared for the attack. He was unarmed—his sword having vanished with his horse—and his blindness freezing his thought process. All instinct was gone, and terror muffled his other senses. All he knew was utter helplessness.

And his attackers relished in it.

They taunted him, moving soundlessly about, appearing from one side then another. At first, it was only icy breath to his left, then a shrill whisper to his right. Then it was a blade slicing at his skin. He didn’t even feel the blades. It seemed like his skin merely split open, and warm blood would suddenly spread out. Thin slices that came out of nowhere, and with each one there was terrible laughter all around him.

He tried to preemptively strike out in the next direction, but ever they avoided his defenses. After a torturous while of thin slices and cuts on his arms, legs and face, the blades went deeper. He was stabbed mercilessly in his sides. The worst one was in his leg. The blade protruded from it, and Estel collapsed.

Heaving ragged breaths, and his heart practically pounding out of his chest, he stayed on the ground. They made no sound, but he knew they were there, surrounding their prey. Coming closer.

If this was to be his end, there was only one face he ached to see, and he prayed the darkness would at least grant him this.

Gathering what little strength he had left, he cried out:

_Arwen, vanimelda, namárië!_

The sound of Elvish seemed to strike at the creatures, and he felt them recoil. He could feel them waver in their hunt.

The words gave him new strength, and he straightened his pose on the ground. There was life in him yet, and he would not die a coward’s death.

 

The creatures didn’t even have time to recover from the offending speech. The Dwarf leapt at them, two makeshift torches burning bright in each hand. It was no ordinary fire either. It burned bright blue and white. It crackled and sizzled. Thin white embers flew from it, latching onto their long cloaks and eating at the thick cloth. The creatures shrieked, shrill and terrible, and fled from the fire.

Thorin was still blind as a bat, but thanks to Balin, he could still mix a flash flame with his eyes closed. Zirhak had vanished from his side, but luckily he had kept one of his packs with him, and the powders needed were at hand. Whatever fell creature had brought on such spells and illusions could attack him in his vulnerable state, so he decided to even the odds.

It was the cry of an Elven tongue that drew him to this spot, and through touch he was able to determine the frightened youth was immobilized on the ground and his attackers lingered in the surroundings. Once he was close enough to Estel, by the sound of his rough breathing and the distinct metallic smell of blood, he knew he was injured. He was now the last defense between the boy’s certain death.

The two flash flame torches kept the creatures at bay, but it would take more to fend them off for good. Thorin strategically dropped the torches on either side of a semi perimeter, then drew Orcrist and readied himself for battle.

The fires would eventually burn low.

 

Bilbo had survived his fair share of untold dangers, but somehow this new terror was too much. He was not ashamed to admit that once it was clear something was approaching them, both of them blind and weaponless, he fainted.

A distant rumbling voice brought him back from unconsciousness. He had not yet regained his senses until he felt something hot and terrible on his side. He realized it was coming from Nauro’s body. A feverish heat emanating from his friend’s entire body.

Such heat was making Bilbo feel sick, and he tugged at his own clothes when it was becoming too much. Nauro’s skin was always so cold. Now it threatened to consume him.

He gasped past the heat and listened to the words.

“Tell your master,” the growling voice spoke far above him, “I have no need of his hospitality!”

_Nauro?!_

But . . . that voice was far too foreign to be coming from him . . .

Foreign, but at the same time, horribly familiar.

 

Nauro faced down the cloaked figure and spoke with all the might he could conjure. The fire raged inside him.

“The walls will stand!” he shouted, his voice shaking the very trees and foundations of the earth.

Fire erupted.

Fierce. Bright. All consuming.

And it enveloped the cloaked figure.

A shrill unnatural shriek tore at the sky.

 

The spell was ended. Somehow. Thorin could feel it.

The darkness was starting to lift from his eyes, and the unseen attackers fell back. He tried to catch his breath, but kept a wary stance, Orcrist still at the ready. The boy at his feet was unconscious, the smell of blood far too strong.

A hand gripped his shoulder, and Thorin swung Orcrist back. His arm was caught in a firm grip, and a voice he never thought to hear again spoke out of the lifting haze.

“Easy, Thorin!”

Thorin ceased his attack.

Another illusion? Another trick? How could he be here?

As if in answer to his questions, the hazy figure approached again and placed a gentler hand on his shoulder once more.

“It’s me, uncle,” Kili’s voice spoke again. “I’m here.”

Orcrist slipped from the gloved hand and fell heavily to the ground.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Arwen Vanimelda, Namarië!": Arwen, my love, farewell! 
> 
> It's what Aragorn says in The Fellowship of the Ring book when he comes to Lórien and for a moment believes he's not going to come back.


	39. An Open Book

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gandalf consults an old friend in the midst of the Golden Wood.

 

Chapter 39: An Open Book

 

The old wizard bent over the crystal clear water and looked far. Farther than he’d intended. Farther than he’d ever looked. And yet, he still couldn’t find what he sought.

Rubbing his weary eyes, he sighed deeply. He leaned back against one of the pillars of fine marble. The luminous trees stretched before him, and distant voices sang ancient Elvish songs of starlight and silver. But they were of little comfort to him.

“I have tried to see your mind,” the lady of light said, her voice deep and rich.

“I must be like an open book to you,” Gandalf answered, meeting her gaze.

She stood in the center of the glade, next to her fountain of clear water. Her white gown caught the strange hue of the trees, and her hair of gold clashed against the silver light about her. Those piercing eyes, endless wells of deep thought and wisdom and memory, glinted fiercely.

She was, in a word, breathtaking.

“Rather a book someone has purposely left on the table,” she said, smiling that knowing smile, “a single page marked for all to read, while everything else stays hidden.”

She stepped closer, her bare feet barely grazing the rich Lórien ground.

“What is it you seek?” she asked. “Will you not tell me?”

Gandalf summoned his most charming smile. “I cannot,” he shrugged boyishly.

It was wasted on her. Her sad gaze deepened.

“You and I, we’ve never hidden anything from each other,” she said. “But now, you refuse to trust me.” She stood before him, and the doubt in her eyes pierced his heart. “Why?”

“I cannot risk this new task,” he answered. “No matter the cost. There is an answer to a question, but until I understand the answer, I cannot pose the question.”

“You make no sense,” she laughed softly. “You used to share your burdens with me. Why is this task so different?”

“Because a good man’s life may depend on it.”

From the severity of his tone, the lady of light knew he meant it. As painful as it was to be kept in the shadows from her dear friend’s life, she was willing to be his light when needed.

Gathering her dress about her, she sat on the forest ground next to him. So they sat, in peace and silence, letting the music of the flowing water ease their concerns.

Till a drawn out comical scream startled them out of their peace.

“GANDAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAALF!!!”

The grey wizard couldn’t help but roll his eyes once he’d recognized that scream. Galadriel merely laughed to herself.

They stood and waited patiently for the bumbling brown wizard, who was quickly making his way through the trees—and crashing into almost every single one of them—to find them.

“Radagast the Brown,” Galadriel announced when the old jittery wizard finally reached them. “It is good to see you again.”

“Lady Galadriel. And it is good to see you back to . . . well, you know, you,” the old man fumbled and made shapes in the air with his twitching hands “. . . and not so . . . terrifying.”

Of course, the last time they had met was the battle against the Necromancer. Radagast had clearly not yet recovered from seeing the Lady of Light’s true form.

Nevertheless, she raised her eyebrow at his chosen word. Gandalf shook his head with a look that said _“He means well.”_

“Gandalf!” Radagast started again in a breathless voice. “I saw your Hobbity friend. And—and the pale stranger!”

“Yes, Radagast, they are both staying in Rivendell as Lord Elrond’s guests,” Gandalf said in the same tone one would address a child. “You didn’t exhaust your poor rabbits just to tell me that, did you?”

“No, no, no, no! In the Wilderland! At Beorn’s home!”

Gandalf stopped at this. “What?! What on earth were they doing there?!” he exclaimed, suddenly feeling very anxious.

“Well, at the time, they were waiting for the others to wake up.”

“Wake up? Wait, others? What others?” he asked frustrated.

“Oh, oh, yes, there was a boy and an Elf.”

“Estel and Legolas,” Gandalf nodded. Of course those two wouldn’t be far off. “And what do you mean wake up?”

The jittery wizard went on to offer a rapid explanation . . . which not surprisingly didn’t really explain anything at all.

“Right,” Gandalf muttered once the babble of nonsense was finished. Galadriel could no longer contain her composure and was laughing merrily at the whole thing. Radagast merely stared expectantly. “Let’s try this again. What were they doing in the Wilderlands in the first place? And what was that nonsense about an abduction?”

“Ah, ah, that was the Dwarf.”

“The Dwarf?”

“Yes, the king Dwarf!”

“King Dwarf?! You mean Thorin!”

Everything suddenly made sense. Memories of his last visit to the Lonely Mountain sprung in his mind. Thorin’s obsession with his father’s fate in Dol Guldur. The endless interrogation about the Seventh ring. And his inquiries on Bilbo’s whereabouts.

“I might have known,” he chided himself, then turned to Galadriel at his side. “I must speak with Elrond. He’ll be interested to know what his young ward is up to. The lady Arwen must also be told.”

“And then?” Galadriel asked, but it was not a question.

Gandalf couldn’t help but feel annoyed at her knowing smile. And all at once, he couldn’t help but love it.

“I am ill at ease. The matter of this spell caster troubles me. I must find them,” he stated.

She smiled, the pools of light in her eyes deepening.

Gandalf looked back to Radagast, who looked like he had quite forgotten where he was and why.

“One more question, old friend. What road did they take?”

 


	40. Help Unlooked For

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group is reunited with old friends.

 

Chapter 40: Help Unlooked For

 

Legolas’ sight returned gradually. His attackers were nowhere in sight. His limbs weighed and he was weary from the fight. Otherwise, he was unharmed.

Once the waking world had returned, he could see it was now late afternoon. They had lost most of the day. He didn’t recognize where he was. So after shaking off the weariness, he set out to find the others. He only hoped they had fared as well as he had. After some time of wandering, he finally found the path, but there were no signs of their prints. He’d been transported far ahead of their original location. Eventually he came across their tracks.

It was an eerie sight. All the hooves and footprints simply stopped, as if they’d all vanished into thin air. All but one set of tracks. Bending low, he studied them closely. Too long, and with a heavy indent. Nauro’s no doubt, fleeing from the path and into the thickets. A little further off track, he heard a voice. A low rumble chanting in an unknown language that sounded like an incantation.

He drew his blade. Perhaps the dark creatures were yet about. The voice echoed off the trees, and soon he found the source. A dark figure kneeling on the ground, bent over another. A low rumbling voice went on with the incantation, and a white pale hand hovered over the other figure.

In his weariness, he did not see his footing. A thick twig snapped under his foot. The dark figure turned.

It was Nauro.

He was changed. His eyes gleamed gold. His skin shone like alabaster. Even the unruly black curls seemed to droop lifelessly in a thick matted mess. There was something cold and feral about him, and Legolas found himself frozen to the spot. Especially when he realized the other figure in his arms was Bilbo, pale and unconscious.

“What are you doing?!” Legolas asked, his blade still drawn.

In the blink of an eye, the transformation was gone. Nauro was back, same storm grey eyes and normal skin. Instead of a vile creature in the midst of casting a spell over an innocent, it was just a man concerned over his friend.

“Fainted,” he said and went on lightly patting the Hobbit’s cheek.

“Mmrgh, stoppit . . .” Bilbo mumbled drowsily, shaking his head.

“He’s fine,” Nauro set him down, then turned back to Legolas. “You?”

“I’ll live,” Legolas answered, still feeling wary. Slowly, he sheathed the blade, but kept a keen eye on the two. At least they were both safe. “Have you seen Estel?”

Before they could answer, he became all too aware that someone was behind him. In a flash, the blade was unsheathed and flying in the air. Luckily, it did not hit its mark.

“Well,” said Tauriel as she re-emerged from her cover in the bushes, “happy to see you too.”

Legolas wondered if this was another illusion. Just before he became blind, he thought he was back in Mirkwood, with Tauriel at his side. As she approached, he knew it was no illusion.

This Tauriel was pregnant.

 

“Beorn sent us word,” Tauriel explained as the four made their way back to the path. “We were expecting you yesterday, so I sent Lansúl to keep an eye on the road.” As if on cue, a majestic hawk landed on Tauriel’s arm. The same hawk Bilbo had been receiving letters from.

Despite feeling weak in the legs, and his head weighing a ton, Bilbo couldn’t help but smile at the elegant creature and its owner.

“We were attacked,” Legolas explained.

“I see your tendency for stating the obvious hasn’t changed, mellonnin,” the Elf smirked. Legolas was in no mood for such comments, and both Bilbo and Nauro’s scoffing behind him did not help. “Lansúl warned me there was danger. We came as fast as we could, but found no sign of any of you till now.”

“You didn’t see anyone else?” he asked.

“We have two more companions,” Bilbo interjected anxiously.

“No one,” she answered gravely. “Neither friend or foe. Who is it that chases you?”

At this, Legolas turned to look at Nauro, as if expecting him to answer. The young Elf lord thought the pale man was going to avoid his gaze. Instead he was met with a fierce glare, a look that spelled defiance. This did not assuage his suspicions.

“We don’t know,” Bilbo answered when the silence went on too long. “We’ve never seen them, but it’s not the first time.”

“How many were there?” she asked, her captain of the guard tone showing.

“I counted two, possibly three,” Legolas said.

“Only one as far as I could tell,” Bilbo shrugged, then shut his eyes in pain. A fierce headache started up and the memory became hazy. Nauro was silent.

“There is a fell presence in these woods,” Tauriel said, her keen eyes looking about.

 

Once they reached the road, where two sturdy horses waited, she whispered something to her feathery friend. The creature took flight, high above the trees.

“Do you think it will find the others?” Legolas asked, following its ascent with his eyes.

“Perhaps, but it will also let Kili know we’ll be waiting for him here. We split up to widen the search. Husband doesn’t have much of a sense of direction,” she added with an endearing smile to Bilbo.

There wasn’t much else to do but wait, so Bilbo spoke at length with his old friend. Legolas stood at a distance, his brow furrowed with concern, and perhaps something else. Every now and then, he would look back to the three sitting on the side of the road. More specifically to the pale man he thought he knew well.

It wasn’t too long before two figures appeared further down the road. Two stocky shapes dragging something behind them. It was Thorin and Kili, pulling a makeshift stretcher of thick long sticks and branches. When they were close enough, Legolas could see it was Estel they were bearing. The smell of blood reached the Elf prince and he rushed to his side. The boy was awake, but severely injured. There were several open gashes all over his torso and along the length of his arms, each one with thin strips of cloth over them. The worse one was a deep stab wound in his leg.

Legolas knelt next to him, taking in every cut and injury. Estel opened his eyes heavily, and despite the amount of pain he was in being obvious in his face, he still managed a weak smile.

“Wish I could say it’s not as bad as it looks,” the boy started, raising a shaking hand, “but then I’d be a big fat liar.”

Legolas clasped his hand tightly and shook his head. If he felt well enough to make light of his injuries, it meant there was still strength in him.

“I bound as many of the wounds as I could,” the young Dwarf spoke as they set the stretcher down. “But they’ll need urgent tending.”

The others gathered around them, Bilbo losing all color in his face at the sight of so much blood.

“We must get him back home. I can treat him there,” Tauriel stated. “I will take him on my horse.”

“I saw some tracks back there,” Kili said, “the mounts can’t be too far. I’ll stay behind and find them. My horse can bear two of you for now.”

At Legolas’ orders, he and Nauro lifted the injured boy. Tauriel leapt onto her horse, and Estel was seated in front of her. He let out a pitiful moan of pain. The ride back was going to be hard on his injuries, so Tauriel whispered something into his ear. He instantly fell in a deep sleep, though pain still weighed his haggard face.

Even though he was unconscious, Legolas still squeezed his friend’s hand. Perhaps more for his own comfort than anything else.

Tauriel didn’t wait for them to decide who would ride. Their horses knew the way home, and the other would be sure to follow. She set her horse at a steady but speedy gallop. It didn’t escape anyone’s attention how the Elf prince stared after the retreating horse.

“You should go with them,” Thorin said.

“Yes,” Legolas agreed instantly. Bilbo scarcely had time to react before the Elf prince lifted him onto the second horse and leapt behind him. Everyone was confused by the sudden unexplained action, and Nauro did not react well to it. His first instinct was to step forward protectively and practically snarl under his breath.

The tall horse took off at a faster pace and quickly vanished up the road.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tauriel's hawk: Lansúl, elvish for Feather Wind.


	41. Come, Athelas!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the black breath blows  
> and death's shadow grows  
> and all lights pass,  
> come athelas! come athelas!  
> Life to the dying  
> In the king's hand lying!

 

Chapter 41: Come, Athelas!

 

Kili looked around at his remaining companions. His uncle who had banished him and had still not looked him in the eye, and Bilbo’s creepy strange friend. This was not going to be easy.

“Well . . .” Kili started awkwardly.

Neither of them reacted. Thorin was suddenly finding the ground very interesting, and Nauro was staring intently at the empty road ahead.

“I—uh—I think I saw the tracks going that way,” he pointed vaguely back from where they came.

Without looking up, or even acknowledging the young Dwarf, Thorin stomped past him. The pale man didn’t move, though Kili waited for him. He took a few tentative steps backwards, then decided to simply go on. He looked over his shoulder a couple times, and the stranger eventually followed after them.

 

“Are you listening to me, Legolas Greenleaf!?” Bilbo went on, outraged. “I will not be treated like a piece of luggage!”

Bilbo had been quite vocal about his treatment, feeling very tired of being picked up and carried here and there like a helpless infant. He would have continued his tirade if it hadn’t been for the expression of utter desolation on his companion’s face. He knew far too well the fear in those aged eyes.

A long edifice of rock loomed ahead, huddled between green and bountiful mounds of grass. The foundation looked old, the rocks weather-worn with patches of moss, but the thatched roof looked new. Freshly tilled crops stretched out next to the house, and thick woods rose on the other side.

The horse was already at the house’s entrance. Tauriel had dismounted, keeping a good grip on the patient, who was still sleeping on the saddle. Legolas leapt off his horse, carrying Bilbo down with him. He very nearly dropped the outraged Hobbit on the ground as he rushed to Tauriel’s side. Together they bore Estel into the house, with Bilbo following close behind.

Once inside a small bedroom, the three got to work immediately. Legolas and Bilbo stripped the youth of his bloody and tattered clothes, then removed the strips of cloth from the gashes. Tauriel set about boiling water and gathering handfuls of herbs. Estel woke up as they were peeling off the improvised bandages, his pain renewed upon having his injuries exposed and raw.

Bilbo let Legolas tend to the slashes while he applied a cold compress to the suffering child’s brow. He shushed his cries of pain and offered feeble words of comfort. A fresh and earthy smell filled the small room, and everyone was renewed. Bilbo felt his anxious heart ease its pace. Even poor Estel let out a breath of relief as some of his pain was lifted.

Tauriel began to chant, crushing thick wads of herbs into her hands. Dropping the herbs into boiling water, she continued her chanting. She breathed into the rising steam, dipped a clean compress into the water; bringing it out again, thin wisps of smoke emanating from the cloth, bearing the refreshing scent. This compress was used to bathe the wounds. She gathered some of the drenched herbs floating on the water and pressed them into the deeper gashes, mainly the stab wound in his leg.

Estel’s hands tightened on the sheets beneath him, his teeth gritting in pain. Tauriel’s chanting went on. Her voice seemed to curl and rise about the room, along with the steam from the water. Another voice joined hers, only this one spoke in the common tongue.

_When the Black Breath blows,_

_And death’s shadow grows,_

_And all lights pass,_

_Come, Athelas!_

_Come, Athelas!_

It was Estel. His voice was soft, but there was some strength in it.

“My mother used to sing that,” he said, his teary eyes settling on Tauriel. “She used Athelas for everything.”

She smiled back at the weak forced smile the mortal boy offered. “It’s funny,” he went on in a waning voice, “for a moment, I thought you were her.”

Whether from the pain of the wounds, or from a distant memory awoken, tears streamed freely down his dirt-stained cheeks. Bilbo pressed a comforting hand on his head.

“Sleep,” Tauriel whispered, clearly moved. “You can sleep now.”

Estel slept, but the tears continued to glide out from under his eyelids.

 

Night fell and there was still no sign of the others. Once Estel was sleeping and all his wounds were dressed, Bilbo stepped outside. He found a small wooden stool outside the door, which he assumed was for Kili since it was perfect for his size. After nearly three years of adjusting to furniture made for people twice—or sometimes three— times his size, it was rather nice sitting in something just right.

He was rather hopeful his leaving the house would give the two Elves time to themselves. They had hardly had time to talk since their reunion. However, Legolas soon joined him outside.

“He has no fever,” he said as he sat on some rocks opposite to Bilbo. “The blades were not poisoned, as I had feared.”

Bilbo shuddered at that thought. “Thank goodness! Tauriel is a skilled healer. She saved my life back in Dale, and I’ve never been able to repay her.”

Legolas nodded, but his expression was hidden from Bilbo. “She’s always been blessed.”

“You don’t think the others might have been attacked again?”

“Tauriel mentioned something about hearing her hawk flying overhead. There doesn’t seem to be any news of danger.”

It wasn’t too reassuring, but Bilbo accepted it.

“Of course,” he started, “always trust a hawk. Now that we’re safe, perhaps you’d care to explain your actions today.”

Legolas did not seem to react to the demand.

“I know you were worried about Estel, but we all were. And for all we knew, Thorin or Nauro could have been hurt. You didn’t even stop to ask! I do not appreciate my decisions being made for me—”

“Bilbo,” the Elf’s voice was grim and firm.

“W-what?”

“You mentioned there was one attacker, after we were all separated,” Legolas suddenly turned, and the light from inside the house revealed something akin to fear in his eyes. “What else do you remember?”

“Well, there was someone following us and—” Bilbo started, but then stopped. His headache was back, and with a vengeance. “I—I’m not sure. I must have fainted early on.”

“Can’t you remember?” the Elf pressed.

The ache became like a dull stabbing. In the haze of the memory, he thought he saw fire. But then it was gone, and only the pain of the ache remained. Bilbo had to breathe deeply before he could speak again. “N-no, nothing. Why?”

“Bilbo,” Legolas was suddenly kneeling right in front of Bilbo, grasping his hands and looking piercingly into his eyes. “If Nauro started to remember things about his other life, would he tell you?”

“What?!” The headache was gone, replaced now with anxiety pulsing in his chest.

“What is with you? You sound like you’re interrogating me! Why would you ask that?”

Legolas’ mouth was set in a grim line. His eyes softened slightly at his friend, and he answered haltingly: “When I found you, there was something . . . strange. Nauro was speaking in another tongue. Like no tongue I’ve ever heard. It sounded— unnatural. He was bent over you and—I can’t explain it but . . . he looked like he was casting some kind of spell.”

Bilbo actually scoffed at this. He couldn’t help it. Nauro was strange and even other-wordly at times, but there was no magic about him. As far as Bilbo knew, only wizards and Elves could master magic.

“No,” he shook his head determined. “You must have been mistaken.”

“What do you really know of him? Where he came from, what he’s capable of,” Legolas pressed, his hand tightening on Bilbo’s.

“You’ve seen what he can do, how strong he is. No human can move that fast, or have senses so keen. It’s rare even among Elves! He can’t be hurt, except by his own strength—”

“Stop this! You’re not making sense!” Bilbo snapped, tearing himself away. He stood to go back inside the house, but was stopped by a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“Twice now we’ve been attacked. By the same assailants no less. Ones who can weave dark and terrible magic. But don’t you see? It is not us they’re after.”

Bilbo froze at this, and the very warmth of his blood seemed stolen away.

“I do believe whatever is chasing us, it’s after him.”

 


	42. The Heart of the Mountain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something is different in Nauro, and someone is waiting in the woods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a long chapter to make up for my terrible updating :( Hope you enjoy!

 

Chapter 42: The Heart of the Mountain

 

The mounts were found in a glade, together. At the very least, in their unfortunate journey, the beasts had come to trust each other.

“Is that Myrtle?!” The Dwarf youth exclaimed happily at the sight of the frightened pony. He approached her slowly, holding out his hands in a placating manner. Once she let him close enough, she nuzzled her snout into his open hands. Kili’s giggles were enough to strike at Thorin’s heart, though outwardly he showed no reaction to it.

“Let’s gather them up. I have no desire to be caught out here after dark,” Thorin said gruffly and reached out to take Zhirak’s reins.

When Nauro approached the two horses, both Eleni and Nykerim reared back in fright.

“What’s the matter with them?”

Nauro did not move, and yet the horses still shied away and whinnied frantically.

“You’d think they’d seen a snake or something,” Kili said, trying to approach the horses in the same way he’d approached the pony.

“Or something,” Thorin echoed under his breath, glancing at Nauro. The pale man only glared in response.

Nauro tried again, this time locking eyes with Eleni. The horse fretted, but eventually calmed down enough to let him take her reins. Nykerim, however, kept his distance.

“Perhaps you’d better take Myrtle,” Kili offered the pony’s reins. “She seems calmer.”

“I’ll take her,” Thorin said, snatching the reins from Kili’s hand and moving to climb onto Zhirak’s saddle.

“Alright,” the Dwarf youth went on with an unrelenting smile. “I’ll ride the horse and lead the elk along. Follow me!”

That ludicrous optimism, Thorin thought to himself as he watched Kili lead them out of the woods and back to the path. He realized it was something he never quite understood of his nephew.

He realized it was also something he missed terribly.

 

They did not reach the stone house till nighttime. Despite their fear of the unknown attackers, their ride was uneventful, and from Kili’s perspective, incredibly awkward. Tauriel was waiting for them at the door.

“Husband,” she greeted him with a wide smile, and bent down to kiss the young Dwarf, a dopey smile plastered on his face the whole time. She straightened up, her round belly a few inches from Kili’s face. He placed his hands on either side of it and kissed it gently.

Bilbo couldn’t help feeling happy, how these two still acted like smitten tweens despite having shared their lives for the last three years. The less excited look on Thorin’s face did not escape him though.

The Dwarf king strode past the couple, straight to Legolas.

“The boy?” he asked.

“Out of danger,” Legolas answered. It was the most polite he’d been to the Dwarf king.

Nauro had leapt off his horse before the creature had a chance to stop. Moving in his unnatural speed, he was at the halfling’s side and did not part from him all evening.

The mounts were comfortably settled in the barn. Tight quarters, especially when shared with two rather large horses. Kili had set straw mats and thick wool blankets on the floor of the house´s larger room. A good fire was going in a hefty fireplace. The young Dwarf awkwardly bid the group goodnight— only receiving a response from Bilbo—and left them for the night.

Their bed was taken over by the patient, so the two would sleep on mats on the floor of their room, since Tauriel still wanted to keep an eye on him.

Once Kili shut the door, Bilbo turned and kicked Thorin where he lay.

“What was that for?!” Thorin asked in an outrage.

“Talk to him, you stubborn ass!” Bilbo hissed, pointing at the closed door where the young Dwarf had stood, staring expectantly at his uncle.

“I have nothing to say,” Thorin said grimly.

“Hmm, let’s see. How about _Thank you for helping us_ or _Nice home_ or _Congratulations on your marriage and imminent baby!_ And where are you going!?” he interrupted his tirade to stop the brooding Elf prince from leaving the house.

“There’s no sleep in me. I’ll keep watch outside,” he said, and promptly left.

Bilbo sighed deeply, then turned back to Thorin. “He is your nephew, Thorin! I know how much it hurts you to have your family torn!”

Thorin lay back on his mat, pulled his hood over his face and folded his arms over his chest. Bilbo thought he was sleeping, until the deep voice answered softly: “He made his decision.”

“Yes,” Bilbo conceded, “but you gave him no choice!”

“This is none of your concern.”

“I’ve been your nephews’ personal messenger for the last two years! I rather think this does concern me!”

Thorin’s chest started rising and falling steadily. The blasted Dwarf had fallen asleep. Or at the very least pretended to. Bilbo huffed and huddled into his thick blanket. He was slightly startled to see Nauro was just sitting up, his back against the wall, and his keen grey eyes set upon him.

“Don’t tell me you’re not sleeping either,” he whispered.

“In a moment,” Nauro answered simply. Perhaps it was a trick of the light from the fire, but Nauro’s eyes seem to glint. Like those of a cat. Legolas’ words from earlier came back to Bilbo’s mind.

“Nauro,” Bilbo whispered. The gleaming eyes looked away from the fire and back to Bilbo. They looked normal again. “What happened when we were attacked? How did we get away?”

The flames shook from an invisible wind, and his friend’s face was hidden from him. “I took you and ran. It did not pursue.”

“It?” Bilbo asked, forgetting to whisper.

“I couldn’t see properly,” he shrugged.

“Really? You?” Somehow he had trouble believing that. As he tried to remember, the same headache from before started up again, pulsing painfully against his very skull. Still he pressed on: “I thought there was a fire. It’s like I remember feeling—feverish or something, and—” He grabbed hold of his aching head, but kept going despite the pain. “And—I don’t—I can’t—there was someone screaming. I heard a terrible shrill scream—”

Long cold hands settled on his hands, on either side of his head. Bilbo looked up startled, finding Nauro inches away from his face. He hadn’t even heard him move.

“There was no fire,” Nauro’s voice came in a whisper, one that seemed to echo in the dark. The room around them had vanished, and for a moment there was only the two of them and the fire, suspended in blackness. Only instead of feeling afraid or unnerved, Bilbo felt relaxed, and the pain faded away. Sleep started to creep in.

The whispering voice went on: “There was no fire. There was no one there.”

Golden eyes gleamed at him, but Bilbo was too eased to completely comprehend what he was seeing. “Hmm, you’re right,” Bilbo mumbled sleepily. “Must’ve imagined it . . .”

“There is no one there,” the voice repeated. “No harm will come to you. I will not allow it. Do you believe that?”

In that last question, the hypnotic whisper shifted into Nauro’s normal uncertain voice. Bilbo was reminded of when his strange friend first started speaking in Rivendell, after Elrond’s aid. All his phrases were hesitant, his tone questioning.

“Do you believe that, Bilbo?”

“Of course, my friend . . .” Bilbo mumbled, drifting off, letting sleep claim him.

 

_This is the last time._

Nauro swore to himself.

The journey into the dark cavern, the one he found himself in while trapped in the terrible sleep, had changed him.

Something had awakened.

While Nauro knew it was part of his shadowy pursuer’s intent, he found some of his new faculties to be . . . well, useful. Persuasion, suggestion, compelling. Call it what you will, it was far easier than he’d anticipated. He did not know where the ability came from exactly. He simply knew how to employ it. He took no joy in using it on Bilbo, but in this case he deemed it necessary.

The fire was harder to explain. And harder to summon. He could not deny the satisfaction he experienced in seeing the cloaked figure enveloped in flames of his own making. Even the shrill ghostly cry that rang out seemed to sate something deep inside him. A thirst finally quenched.

Still, he did not want Bilbo to see that side to him. In the halfling’s eyes, it was essential he remained human. Which is why he gave in to such tricks, to make sure he did not remember.

His pursuer was weakened, he knew, but not vanquished. Nauro looked to the open window, to the night sky that loomed overhead. He walked to the window, and looked out at the dark thick forest ahead.

They were out there, waiting for him.

_I shall not disappoint you . . ._

 

Legolas paced uneasily outside the house. Thorin was sitting close by, deep in thought, when Bilbo joined them.

“Have you seen Nauro?”

“I always assume he’s with you,” Thorin answered.

“I don’t think he slept at all. His things were undisturbed,” Bilbo said, looking around the area. There was no sign of him anywhere.

Just then, Tauriel appeared at the door. She seemed tired, but light lingered in her clear eyes. “He’s awake,” she said first to Legolas, who nodded in relief then went back to avoiding her gaze. “He wants to speak to you,” this time she spoke to Thorin.

Tauriel giggled at the three’s comical expressions. This certainly was a surprise.

When Thorin entered the small room, Kili was there, feeding the small hearth across from the bed. At the sight of his uncle, the young Dwarf scrambled to finish his task.

“There’s no hurry,” Thorin mumbled.

Kili froze at the words addressed to him, then went on calmly tending to the fire. Estel was wide awake and drinking the last of a warm broth. The wounds obviously pained him, yet he seemed to be feeling stronger. Thorin was rather taken aback when the youth set down the bowl and actually smiled at him.

“Thank you.”

Thorin tilted his head in confusion.

“If it hadn’t been for you, this might have been a lot worse,” he glanced down at his bandaged arms and legs. “You saved me.”

“You saved yourself. It was the Elvish that kept them at bay. I would never have found you otherwise. Lord Elrond would be proud of your valor.”

“Hmph,” Estel scoffed, then winced at the motion tugging at the wounds on his torso. “Not much valor in giving in. I thought I was done for and I’d never see—well, never see my Arwen again. I couldn’t bear it.”

Thorin glanced to Kili in front of the hearth, only to see he had also stopped, a sympathetic look on his face. It was gone as soon as he noticed his uncle watching him. When Thorin looked back to Estel, there was a hand held out to him. He took it carefully in his own.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Estel said with a playful smile. “I still think you’re a bit of a bastard.” A gasp of shock erupted from the kneeling Dwarf by the hearth, which he disguised as a coughing fit. “But Bilbo is right. You are honorable, and a fine companion.”

Thorin nodded respectfully, and Estel extended his gratitude by offering the traditional greeting of the Elves. Placing his hand over his heart and then holding it out to the recipient.

As Kili moved to leave the room, Thorin stopped him.

“Walk with me.”

 

The two Dwarves walked in silence, further and further away from the house, into the open field. Kili fidgeted nervously the whole way.

“Uncle, look, before you say anything I just want you to know I—”

“Stop.”

Kili’s mouth snapped shut. Despite his age, his uncle’s stern voice could still make him feel like a hapless Dwarling.

“I’m proud of you.”

He looked up so fast his neck practically cracked. His eyes were wide with disbelief and hope all at once. He couldn’t have heard right!

Thorin turned, and fixed his stern piercing gaze on his nephew.

“You’ve become a far greater man than I could’ve ever dreamt. I was too blind to see.”

Kili was speechless. He tried to compose himself, stand strong as he always did before Thorin Oakenshield. But he could do nothing against the tears freely streaming from his eyes.

“Your father would be proud,” Thorin went on, more to himself. His gaze dropped to the ground, as if he was suddenly ashamed. “If your mother could see you . . .”

“Well, she will soon,” Kili said laughing, while wiping his entire arm across his eyes. Thorin turned to look at him shocked, and for a moment Kili was afraid the moment of sympathy was gone. “I was banished from Erebor, not the Blue Mountains. First place we went to, when we realized we were both homeless. Not that we were really welcome there, but as you can imagine no one dared speak out against mother.”

Thorin was, admittedly, outraged. Momentarily enraged that his sister kept this from him. However, the image of his sister defending this enormous Elf maiden from gossiping and judgmental Dwarves lightened the news.

“She wants to be here, for the baby,” Kili continued nervously, fidgeting again. “Last time we wrote, she said she’d try to come in a month or so.”

A long silence followed. Kili continued to fidget, uncertain about his uncle’s reaction. Thorin stared out into the lands around them, his expression unreadable.

“A month,” his deep voice echoed.

The suspense was driving the poor Dwarf youth crazy.

“I can probably spare your brother for that time.”

Thorin was not expecting the tackling bear hug he received, and both Dwarves went down instantly. The young Dwarf’s merry laugh could be heard ringing in the trees around them.

 

Mirth-filled laughter might have been echoing at the edge of the woods, but deep within the woods there was silence.

Nauro was sitting in the middle of a glade. His legs crossed, his back rigid, and his eyes closed. He was waiting, listening, basking in the silence.

Then they came.

The rustling of cloaks, shifting and whooshing. Circling him. Nine, he counted. He opened his eyes.

There they stood. Cloaks made of rotting mud stained fabric. Some still singed from the previous night. Except for the leader, who stood but a few feet before Nauro. The cloak had no signs of being practically scorched.

Nauro stood, slowly, keeping his eyes on the leader. To his surprise, instead of attacking, the nine bowed low. They moved like lifeless puppets, in semi-synchronized jilted movements.

 _“Hail, my lord,”_ the leader spoke in hideous whispers. He was the only one not to hold out his arms when he bowed. Instead, he kept both hands hidden under his sleeves. _“I am to offer you my hospitality, on behalf of our master.”_

“I respectfully decline,” Nauro answered in his most mocking tone.

 _“We do not come to attack. We come to return something of yours,”_ the figure said, and though Nauro could not see a face, he somehow knew there was a hideous smile behind that voice.

“You have nothing I want!”

The concealed hands moved slowly, pulling out from under the thick sleeves. One skeletal hand held out a fist-sized stone. It seemed to be made of pure light, and glistened even in the poor light of the woods. But it wasn’t the streaks of light emanating from the stone that caught Nauro’s eye.

He knew that stone.

He knew it well.

His feet moved on their own. Mesmerized, he approached. Unseen eyes watched his every step. His hand stretched out, reaching for the stone.

_Don’t!_

This voice, screaming from the depths of his mind, wasn’t the dreaded voice he long fought. It was his own.

He hesitated, pulling back his hand slightly.

What remnants of will power held back his hand faded quickly.

Something was calling him.

In an instant, he tore the stone from the skeletal hands.

 

“He looks happy,” Bilbo said, after nearly being bowled over by an ecstatic Kili rushing back to the house.

Thorin lingered outside. He too was smiling, but it was somehow weighed down with worry.

“And yet you do not,” Bilbo concluded.

“It’s as if a haze has been lifted from my eyes,” Thorin admitted. “I’ve wasted so much time . . . obsessing on—it all seems so trivial now.” The Dwarf was looking to the house, from which one could hear Kili’s excited jabbering to his Elf bride. “I will return to Erebor,” he suddenly announced.

Bilbo looked at him surprised. “What about your father’s ring?”

“It pains me to leave it in such foul hands,” Thorin said, and a shadow crossed his face. “In my own folly, I even dreamt of storming Angmar’s stronghold with an army of Dwarves. But I see now what folly it is. Why look to other lands when there is much rebuilding to do in my own.”

Perhaps Bilbo’s first thought should have been how they had come all this way for nothing. Somehow, he did not think that at all. Instead, he was relieved.

“Beorn was right, then.”

“What do you mean?”

“You found what you truly sought.”

Thorin smiled. At long last, a true smile, free of worry or grief. For Bilbo, this was the only way this dratted cursed quest could end.

“It is time to go home,” Thorin concluded.

Their relief was short lived.

 

At first it was the birds that caught their attention. Flocks upon flocks of birds appeared from the trees, fleeing in frantic bouts.

Then an eerie silence followed.

It became very cold.

A violent wind started up, seemingly coming in waves. Each wave stronger than the last.

Bilbo and Thorin both looked to the woods, from where the wind seemed to be coming from.

“What is it?” Bilbo asked.

The others appeared at the door of the house, drawn by the sounds of the retreating birds. As the wind kept picking up, the horses and other mounts started reeling, kicking at the stable door and crying out in terror. At a distance, trees started collapsing. The sound of their tall bodies hitting the ground echoed in the crashing wind waves.

Bilbo shielded his eyes as the wind started carrying splinters and leaves and branches.

“Something is coming!” Legolas cried out and ran back inside to find Estel. “We should leave!”

“Where is Nauro?!” Bilbo yelled against the wind, unable to look around because of the wind storm.

“Tauriel! Hurry!” Kili took Tauriel’s arm, but the Elf did not move.

“I’ve felt this before,” she said as if in a trance, her red hair hovering about her like flames.

Then it came.

A roar that shook the very bowels of the earth, and made all who heard it cower in fear. Fire erupted from among the trees, and a horrifying reptilian head reared against the storm clouds.

“It cannot be!” Thorin whispered, breathless, shaking his head and backing away from a sight he never thought he’d see again.

Bilbo was too afraid to even move. A single breath escaped his mouth, and with it a name he still dreaded.

“Smaug . . .”

 


	43. The Morning of the Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Foolishly, Bilbo runs into the woods, and finally learns a terrible truth.

Chapter 43: The Morning of the Dragon

 

Thorin’s blood ran cold at the sight of his old enemy, very much alive and currently destroying the woods with its flailing body and whiplash of a tail. The wings, spreading out like a monstrous bat, tore through the age old trees. The crack of their falling trunks, torn from the very roots, filled the stinging air about them. It wouldn’t be long before the horrid snake decided to add fire to his destruction.

“We have to move! Come on!” he cried out, snapping out of his horror.

Displaying a new found strength, no doubt driven by fear and adrenaline, the Elf prince was able to bear Estel out of the house and towards the stables. The frightened mounts were close to bringing down the wooden walls of the stables, and if they should flee in fright, their riders would be lost. Thorin lead Tauriel and Kili ahead of the Elf prince and his charge. Their task to calm the frightened beasts long enough to mount them and make their escape.

Bilbo was about to follow them, until the savage winds bore a familiar sound to his ears. Despite the deafening roars of the Dragon, and the loudness the destruction he wrought, the wind carried very distinct screams of agony.

It was Nauro, Bilbo knew. And the screams were coming from the woods.

“No . . .”

Bilbo bolted, battling the raging wind that beat mercilessly against his body. He ignored the others calling him, running blindly and wildly into the woods where a live Dragon thrashed and roared.

 

Thorin had started to run after the dratted Hobbit, but was stopped. The tornado-like winds that enveloped them grew stronger by the second. The beasts were mad with fear. Legolas’ arms were occupied with the injured boy, and Kili would not leave his pregnant wife’s side.

They needed help, and were close at hand.

It was a difficult decision, but one he did not hesitate in.

He made for the stables, the image of his burglar vanishing into the chaos of the woods burning in his mind.

 

Bilbo ran until his lungs begged for air. There was none to be had, not with the wild winds filled with dust and twigs. Despite walking up to a live dragon—for the second time in his life—he did not feel the need to use the ring. There was enough cover, between knocked over trees and uprooted brambles and boulders.

Even then, the creature was far too distracted, throwing out its long neck to the sky, unhooking its horrible jaws in order to roar louder. The thunderbolt of a tail tore through every trunk like they were paper. Its legs stomped blindly and mercilessly. The wings stretched out, to their very limit, as if trying to grasp at the very air.

Bilbo stared at the creature’s jerky and flailing movements.

There was something . . . _off_.

Somehow, he remembered Smaug being much bigger. This dragon, though still monstrous, seemed to shift in size every time it moved. And when Bilbo tried to focus his eyes on the writhing creature, the less he could make it out. It was as if its very shape faded in and out. Were it not for the destruction around him, Bilbo would have thought the dragon was a mere illusion.

Or perhaps, if he had witnessed Smaug’s fall . . . was this a phantom?

It was in one of the moments when the dragon’s being seemed to fade that Bilbo’s gaze was drawn to the forest’s floor. There, he could barely make out a figure slumped over, completely unresponsive to the swirling storm around him.

Bilbo dared not breathe. If that figure was Nauro, he was right at the spectral dragon’s feet.

It was time to use the ring.

He had only just reached into his inner coat pocket to retrieve the ring when a shadow fell over him. A putrid smell invaded his nostrils. Flapping violently in the cross winds were heavy black cloaks. Bilbo could make no face under the hoods, or any visible hands under the long sleeves. But there was someone under that cloak. Or at the very least, something. And it was watching him.

Despite all manner of creatures the Hobbit had encountered, this was something new. It chilled him to the very core. He would have remained frozen, rooted to the very spot as the hidden presence reached out a slow hand towards him.

But just then, Nauro let out another scream. Bilbo forgot about the figures that surrounded him and instead focused again on his friend. He was clutching his head, his entire back arched backwards and his face turned towards the heavens. His entire stance seemed to mirror that of the writhing dragon. And the cry of anguish was suddenly drowned by another piercing roar.

Bilbo bolted past the cloaked figures, straight into the dragon’s path, calling for his friend. But he did not seem to hear him.

A grip of harsh steel latched onto him and threw him backwards. Hitting his back against a fallen tree, he was momentarily dazed. With the whirlwind rising again, the world itself seemed to be spinning out of control. When he managed to recover some semblance of reality, the shrieking cloaked figure was advancing upon him, while Nauro remained on the floor, gripping the sides of his head, unresponsive. The dragon, however hazy in form, still wrought havoc and mayhem and destruction.

Any doubts Bilbo might have had as to its reality were sated when it suddenly reared its horrid head and released a bout of savage flame. It filled the sky above, raining down ash, filling the woods with foul thick smoke and the air itself with a suffocating heat. Scattered bits of flame started covering the forest floor, sending pine needles and dried leaves into instant blazes. It wouldn’t be long before some of the flames took to the trees and destroyed the entire forest.

Bilbo forced himself to his feet, despite the pain and the daze, and made again to run past the cloaked figure. He would never had made it, for the iron clad grip was close to gripping his throat anew.

Then something else set the forest ablaze. It was no hell fire from a dragon’s mouth. It was light. Pure white light. Light that renewed Bilbo’s strength, stopping the pain in his back and the fear in his heart. Light that chased the shrieking cloaked creature away. Or at least, forced it back, for it retreated into the shadows of the deeper woods—those still unaffected by the dragon—where other cloaked figures skulked before the conquering light.

The dragon ceased its onslaught and turned to find the source of the light. It was the first time that Bilbo could see it fully formed. As the dragon reacted to the light, Nauro’s body went limp. His arms fell lifelessly to his sides and his head slumped forwards, though he remained slouched over his knees.

“Bilbo!”

He turned in time to see a horse riding at full speed towards him. It was the rider who held the source of the light, high above his head.

“Gandalf?!”

The light diminished, enough for the Hobbit to make out his old friend. The wizard was leaning dangerously over the side of the horse, one arms holding his staff aloft, light emanating from it. His other arm was outstretched towards him.

“Your hand, Bilbo!”

Without really thinking, he held out his hand, which was instantly caught in the wizard’s grip. He was hauled up onto the horse, seated behind Gandalf. There was no choice but to hold on as the high horse continued its fast pace.

They had caught the dragon’s eye, and it gave chase, screaming vast throaty roars. It advanced, but slowly and awkwardly. Bilbo was reminded of a foal trying to run when it was unused to its own legs. It was as if the dragon’s own body weight was against him, and every step sent him reeling into the ground. All the while, the whip-like tail lashed out uncontrollably.

The Elven trained horse managed to dodge or leap over the swooping tail. When Bilbo turned, the horrid reptilian head was rearing back. He feared it was about to unleash another bout of fire, from which they could not outrun.

But nothing came out. The creature only heaved as if unable to breathe. The woods shook as the large creature finally collapsed onto its side.

Gandalf stopped his horse, a fair distance from the creature, and both riders beheld a strange sight.

It was like something out of a dream. Or rather a nightmare.

The dragon’s body took full form, though Bilbo was still sure it was much smaller than the dragon he had encountered three years ago. It was clearly weak, and perhaps even afraid. What concerned the wizard far more than a live dragon wreaking havoc in the middle of the woods, were the nine cloaked figures standing around it.

One stood tall and mocking, facing Gandalf instead. Something glinted in his skeletal hands.

Bilbo was more worried about Nauro, who remained in place, unresponsive and seemingly unconscious, not far from the dragon and the circling figures. The two riders were at a far distance, but keen Hobbit eyes could still see him.

It was only then, when the winds had died down and the forest fell into an eerie unnatural silence, did Bilbo realize sometimes he couldn’t see Nauro at all. He too had taken an almost ghostly appearance, and it was harder and harder to see him properly.

The tall figure held out the glinting orb, which both Gandalf and Bilbo recognized.

“Is that—” Bilbo started.

“The Arkenstone,” Gandalf said, his voice betraying surprise and confusion.

The figure balanced the stone in its hand, then the other arm stretched out, pointing at them.

 _“Our Lord sleeps, wizard,”_ a hideous hiss reverberated in what was left of the vast woods. Bilbo shivered at the sound of it.

_“But the dragon is awake!”_

With this last declaration, the winds started up again. Bilbo shut his eyes tightly. When he opened them again, Nauro was nowhere in sight.

He looked about for him frantically, but at that moment, the dragon had found its feet, rising up and spreading out its wings. The other figures too had vanished, but at the base of the dragon’s neck, the tall figure stood, holding out his arm in a mocking farewell.

Then the dragon took flight, raising itself and its evil burden high into the sky, knocking more ancient trees and shattering the overhead foliage.

The horse and its riders did not escape this unscathed, as it reared in such fear they all went tumbling to the ground. With one final throaty weak roar, the dragon disappeared into the grey sky.

“Bilbo! Are you hurt?” Gandalf said, helping Bilbo to his feet and checking him for injuries.

“Never mind me! Where is Nauro?!” Bilbo cried out, grasping the wizard’s hands.

Clear blue eyes held no answers, only terrible sympathy.

 

Thorin breathed a sigh of relief when the dragon vanished out of sight. Despite the rage at finding the cursed Smaug alive and well, he was relieved the threat was gone and he had not lost anyone to it. At least, he prayed he had not.

Once they had control over the frightened mounts—no easy task and some Elven conjures had to be used to ease their minds—they had fled for shelter far from the site of destruction.

The flap of the terrible wings and the roars faded away, and they felt it safe to emerge and find their missing companions. The stone house stood unharmed, but the destruction in the forest would take many years to renew again. When they reached their home, Kili and Tauriel embraced, overcome by what had occurred. Legolas set Estel down outside the home. The injured youth wept, but Legolas knew it was not for pain of his injuries.

“If they are still alive,” the Elf prince said, placing a comforting hand on his friend’s shoulder, “we’ll find them.”

Thorin was already on his way to the devastated woodland, and Legolas was about to join him when a horse emerged out of the destruction.

The group heaved in collective relief at the sight of the wizard and the Hobbit, both looking disheveled and shaken, but otherwise unharmed.

“Mithrandir, ever you come unlooked for yet when most needed,” Legolas said as Gandalf leapt wearily off his horse.

“Bilbo!” Thorin exclaimed when rushing to greet the Hobbit being set down on the ground. He was shaking from head to toe, his eyes wild and his stance weak. Thorin caught him just as he stumbled, and was gripped tightly by frantic hands in return.

“They took him!” Bilbo cried out, squeezing and pulling at Thorin’s sleeves. “They took Nauro! I—I don’t know how but—somehow they—I think he’s under some kind of spell!”

“Bilbo . . .” Gandalf started.

“We have to go after them! Now!”

“Bilbo Baggins! Harken to me!” Gandalf cried out, grabbing hold of the hysterical Hobbit. “He is under no spell. And you are not deceived! Trust your own eyes! What did you see in those woods?”

“We don’t have time for riddles!”

“You didn’t see them take him. What did you see?” the wizard pressed as the others drew in closer.

“I—I—” Bilbo stammered, unsure of what it was he’d seen.

“You saw the man vanish before your eyes, and a dead dragon come to life,” Gandalf spoke, yet to Bilbo his voice sounded far off.

The sight he beheld in the woods played in his mind again. Clearer. Tangible. Nauro, his friend, fading away like smoke. Mere seconds before a monster became flesh and bone and . . .

_No . . ._

“Mithrandir, what are you talking about?” Legolas asked, his voice even farther away.

“They didn’t take him. He went with them. There’s nothing you could have done to prevent it.”

What little color was left in Bilbo’s face faded entirely, leaving only sickly pallid skin. His legs failed him, and the only reason he was standing was because Gandalf was holding him up from his arms.

“I don’t understand—” he breathed.

But deep down, quite suddenly, like lightning, he did.

“Nauro _is_ Smaug!”

 

 


	44. The Wizard's Tale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gandalf sheds some light into the matter of Smaug's transformation, but far too many questions remain unanswered.

 

Chapter 44: The Wizard's Tale 

 

Bilbo’s legs failed entirely, but he was caught by Thorin, who led him back to the house. He was so concerned half supporting, half carrying his unresponsive friend that the revelation had not had time to sink in entirely.

The others followed, in a heavy daze.

The silence inside the house was palpable. The common room was taken up entirely. Estel had refused to return to bed, bearing his injuries in order to remain with the group. Tauriel and Kili, who had not really known the strange pale man, were not unmoved by everyone’s reaction, but they had more wits about them to remain good hosts. A fire burned pleasantly in the hearth, but no one had the heart to enjoy it.

Bilbo cradled a glass of wine. It was his second. The first one had practically been forced down his throat in order to snap him out of his near swoon. Still, he couldn’t stop his hands from shaking.

“It’s not possible—” Thorin broke the silence, shaking his head.

“And yet, here we are,” Gandalf shrugged.

“It’s not possible because dragons don’t just turn into men!” Estel suddenly snapped, wincing at his wounds. “It just—doesn’t happen! That kind of power does not exist!”

“Oh, doesn’t it,” the wizard answered with infuriating passivity. “You have studied Middle Earth history, my young friend. Did not Sauron assume a more pleasing shape to deceive the Elves and the leaders of Men?”

“Sauron was a Maiar,” Estel countered. “Practically a demi god. That kind of power belongs to the gods, not to dragons! Dragons could bewitch, cast a few spells, but not channel powers of the gods!”

“Ah, I did not know you were such a dragon expert.”

“Mithrandir, that is not helping,” Legolas said, as if chiding an elfling.

“Ever the diplomat, Thranduil’s son,” Gandalf responded with as much venom as before. Then the old wizard sighed and passed his hand over his eyes. It was suddenly clear to everyone he was tired and overwrought with the events that transpired. How far had he traveled to reach them?

Which brought up another question to the elf’s mind.

“How long have you known?” Legolas asked, tentatively.

At this, Bilbo looked up, awaiting the response.

All eyes were now on the wizard, and he looked even more weary than before.

“I suspected,” Gandalf said, meeting Bilbo’s expecting gaze. “Anyone who met the man felt the same. Something about him. Something otherworldly. It seemed too much chance— No, I must go back further.”

So the wizard began his tale. He spoke in more detail of his journey to the High Fells, only to find that nine tombs had been desecrated, and now lay empty. The nine servants of the Dark Lord set loose upon the world could only mean that they had heard their master’s call.

Bilbo took a nervous drink at this. Weren’t there nine figures out in the woods that day?

Gandalf’s road had then led him to Dol Guldur, to the Necromancer’s keep. He did not speak much of Thorin’s father, for that story was well known to the Dwarf. Still, hearing of that dreaded place again, made Thorin unconsciously reach out and rest his hand on his nephew’s shoulder. Kili returned the gesture, a silent moment of grief for their wronged kin.

Neither Legolas nor Bilbo had heard the full tale of the Necromancer’s dungeons, and how the White Council had answered the call. How the Lady of Light’s power had banished his spirit, and how that power had fled to the East.

“Where it will undoubtedly gather power and rise anew,” Gandalf ended with a grim tone.

The two elves in the room looked to each other. They knew from the history of their people what the Dark Lord’s reign had wrought, and the horrors of the wars and battles that followed. They had not witnessed such a time in this earth, and neither of them wished to.

“What does this have to do with—” Estel said impatiently.

“Wait,” the wizard snapped, and Estel’s mouth practically slammed shut. He went on; “I journeyed to Erebor as quickly as I could, to cut off the orc armies. However, other powers were against me, and the armies did not listen. Between claims for gold and land, the leaders were deaf to my warnings.”

Guilt hung heavy in the room, but Gandalf spoke no names and went on with his tale.

“Already I feared Sauron’s hold was reaching nobler hearts, and his evil was already at work. I was being paranoid of course, but after being his guest for so long, surely you cannot blame me. So when I met this strange man, one who resembled an Elf, no memories or even a name, I was suspicious. We did not know just how weak Sauron was in his flight, or rather how strong.”

Bilbo looked up at this. But it was Legolas who spoke what he was thinking.

“You . . . you thought he was Sauron?”

“The way he looked,” Gandalf defended himself, “his bearing, his allure. It matched the descriptions of the façade Sauron had taken to earn the good will of unsuspecting lords and kings.”

“Well, why did you not confront him?” Tauriel asked.

“I thought of it, once the battle had ended and there seemed to be peace. If it had been Sauron in disguise, he would have been overrun by the now allied armies. But slowly my theory started to fall apart. Something just wasn’t quite right. And that, my dear Bilbo, was you.”

All eyes suddenly turned to the small creature sat by the fire. He seemed even smaller.

“Sauron could feign many qualities in order to pass as human or good, but every deed was underhanded, or a calculated move to further his schemes. In a grand schemer’s mind, a Halfling from the Shire was of no use. There was no profit, no gain, no reason to show you kindness, or affection. And the more I observed him, the more I could see his affection was genuine.”

Bilbo tightened his hold on his glass, seeing memories of the mute and awkward stranger following him about Dale. His eyes stung with unwanted tears, which he bit back with every ounce of his strength.

“My suspicions of him being Sauron, or at the very least one of his spies, wavered. However, it was still too strange a chance for a man to be simply born out of the water where Smaug had met his end. Another theory, however impossible, then came to me. I couldn’t be sure, of course, which was why I decided he must be brought to Rivendell as soon as possible. For if it was Smaug the terrible trapped in a weak man’s body, memories or no, it would only be so long before the dragon broke free.”

Bilbo’s gaze turned positively fierce. The others’ reactions to this were enough for Gandalf to know their mind. Why did he keep this to himself for so long?

“There was no need to frighten you,” Gandalf said, trying to sound comforting. Bilbo was far from comforted. “Your attentiveness was crucial. If you suspected this poor creature was actually the very monster you loathed for taking so many lives, you would have become distant and perhaps even resentful. If he lost your good graces, nothing could have stayed the dragon.”

The anger in Bilbo’s eyes did not diminish, but he did grimace, perhaps seeing some truth in the wizard’s words.

“When we arrived in Rivendell, Elrond and I got to work. He looked deep into his mind, deeper than he’s ever had to travel, I believe. He saw what was hidden. And we both decided it should remain hidden. The memories were sealed, we made sure of it. With our skills combined, there was no way he could recover them. The way we saw it, we were allowing a new life to begin. This way, perhaps some good could come from the vile existence of Smaug and all the lives he took.”

The last words truck home to those present, but none so much as Thorin and Bilbo. Thorin who remembered the devastation his people suffered, corpses lining the walls of a subterranean chamber. And Bilbo, who still dreamt of the distant fire he knew engulfed an entire town.

“But Elrond was always wary,” the old wizard went on. “He always wondered just how much of Smaug lingered in this new creature. And if any of it would lead him astray, or worse, lead him back to that terrible life. In the end, neither of us had any answers. If we told him the truth, we ran the risk of losing him all together. But the longer we kept it from him, the more damage it could cause should it ever come to light. I left for Lorien with the hopes of getting answers as to what to do. It was there that I received news of your own journey and I became afraid. I had never considered that others might want the dragon back.”

“What do you mean?” Tauriel asked.

“Sauron. The nine figures haunting your every step. When I was trapped in Dol Guldur, I came to know one of my fears was true. Sauron was in contact with Smaug.” At this, a shadow crossed the old man’s face. Fear crept into his eyes, and it was clear the memory was dark.

“Long they would speak. How, I do not know, but I heard them. At times, they seem to speak as one. One same terrible voice. As I had long feared, there was to be an alliance between them. A trade of sorts. Smaug’s allegiance and his mountain in exchange for something.”

“But what?” Thorin stepped forward, his features infuriated at the description of “ _his_ mountain.”

“I don’t know. I never learned the full nature of the trade. I believe it has something to do with the dragon’s transformation, but it still leaves many questions unanswered. Why change into a mortal man? And why subject himself to living a mortal life for so long? Why withhold memories from himself? And how was he changed back?”

“And what sort of magic could allow such a transformation?” Legolas stepped forward.

“One that is ancient. One designed to twist the way of the world. To defy what is natural. No doubt Sauron had a hand in it. But how exactly, I do not know. I see now that I should have acted sooner. For now, Sauron has regained his most terrible ally.”

Silence fell again, and the room was suddenly lost in thought. Thorin strode over to the hearth, leaning over it. For a moment, he was about to reach out to Bilbo, to comfort his old friend. But it did not seem to be the right time, so instead he simply stood nearby. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what the Halfling was feeling.

“He was always so . . . human,” Estel said softly. “I mean, he was weird and all, but still—I just can’t believe it.”

“There was always something I feared in him,” Thorin added, his gaze contemplative and lost in the small fire. “But this— I never would have imagined this.”

“I don’t care.”

Everyone awoke from their thoughts and looked to the Hobbit. The first words he had spoken in that entire time, and they were unexpected to say the least.

 

 


	45. Northward Bound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo comes to a hard decision.

 

Chapter 45: Northward Bound

 

“I don’t care.”

Bilbo said again, looking up to meet everyone’s look of surprise. “It doesn’t matter, not anymore. Who he was then. That’s not who he is now.”

Gandalf winced, pained at Bilbo’s unwavering loyalty. “Bilbo,” he started, almost pleadingly, “you saw what happened. He embraced his true form and has joined the Dark Lord’s servants.”

“You said Sauron fled to the East,” Bilbo went on, setting his glass down and standing upright. “They went North.”

He paused and stared expectantly at each and every one of them.

“And?” Kili asked when no one else spoke.

“Angmar,” Thorin said, “they’ve gone to Angmar. But why?”

“It is the Witch King’s domain,” Gandalf answered. “Our enemy is regrouping. They are not yet ready to show themselves to the world, not until their master has regained his full strength.”

“Then there’s time!” Bilbo spoke, his voice determined and his stance fierce. “Time to find him, remind him who he is.”

“I thought that was the problem,” Kili shrugged.

“Smaug died that night,” Bilbo snapped at the surprised Dwarf. “The man you met in this house may have once been a creature of destruction, but no more!”

“Bilbo . . .”

The Hobbit turned to the Elf prince, whose voice was heavy with foreboding.

“We do not know what he is capable of.”

“What do you mean?”

“He may no longer have been a dragon, but there was something dark in him. Something that long slept, but had been awakened. When I found you both in the woods, his eyes were changed. His voice, whatever tongue he spoke in—”

“I’m sure you misunderstood,” Bilbo cut in, “he would never do anything to harm any of us!”

“There’s something else,” Estel suddenly chimed in. “That night we were all— _separated_ ,” he emphasized the word with a sharp glare at Thorin, then looked back to Bilbo. “The night we were ambushed by orcs. You did not see him. What he did. The savagery, the strength he wielded. Dozens of orcs, torn to shreds. With nothing but his bare hands.”

“The horses were afraid of him,” Kili spoke softly. “They reacted as they would to a predator.”

Bilbo looked around, realizing what was happening. He stood in the middle of a circle, alone. And all around him were eyes full of pity, but not fellowship. He looked to each of his companions, one by one, seeking that one glimmer of understanding. He found none. Even Kili and Tauriel would not meet his pleading gaze. Lastly his eyes landed on Gandalf, who did not look away, but did not waver either.

“He is your friend,” Bilbo spoke, looking around at his traveling companions again. “He has fought by your side, shared your perils. He’s laughed with you, cared for you, and fought for you. You would desert him now?”

“No one is saying that, Bilbo,” Estel said. “All we’re saying is—I don’t know, we—we just need to think about all this.”

“What is there to think about!” The Hobbit practically shouted. “Our friend is in peril and it is our task to help him! When you all thought I was in danger, you did not hesitate to come after me! How is this any different?!”

Gandalf sighed deeply. “I was given one of Lorien’s fastest horses and went on ahead, but Lord Elrond and his company are on their way to meet us. They ride on fast steeds, and should be here in a day or so. I suggest we wait for their council.”

“Wait?! Why do we have to wait! What is wrong with everyone—” Bilbo’s features suddenly contorted with pain. Thorin was by his side in a second.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“My back, took a bad fall, I’m afraid,” the pained Hobbit answered. He had quite forgotten of the cloaked figure that threw him about like a rag doll.

“You’d better lie still for a bit. Let me have a look,” Tauriel spoke softly and along with Thorin, they started leading Bilbo out of the room. Before they could leave, Gandalf stood before Bilbo, placing a gentle hand on his arm.

“Forgive me,” he said, his eyes filled with pity. “I should have trusted you.”

“No,” Bilbo shook his head, and lifting his head to meet Gandalf’s eyes, tears and rage mixed within. “You should have trusted _him_.”

And with that, he allowed himself to be led away from the small room.

 

Tauriel tended his wounds then urged him to lie on his stomach and let his back heal. Bilbo’s entire being was weighed down with grief and anger.

“Mithrandir cares for you,” she spoke softly. “For both of you. Of this I have no doubt. Even wizards can make mistakes.”

Bilbo did not respond, but tears rolled down his dirt stained face. She picked up her things and made to leave the room. Thorin stood his ground, watching over his injured friend.

 

The wizard was weary, in body and in spirit. Guilt gnawed at him, but he knew he was of little use half alive. The rest of the day, the small house, despite being filled with guests, was silent as the wizard slept, and Estel and Bilbo rested uneasily, heeding their wounds.

Tauriel and Kili worked their fields for a bit, taking in their new view. The woods surrounding their home, destroyed, devastated and scorched. It was not a comforting sight.

“It will grow anew,” Tauriel said, embracing her husband from behind.

“I know, but it will take time,” Kili answered, grabbing hold of her hands.

“Which we have,” she whispered, before kissing his cheek.

“Poor Bilbo,” Kili went on. “I’ve never seen him like that.”

The Elf breathed in, and straightened up, keeping her hands on his shoulders. “I do not speak of that night, when I called you back from the brink.” Kili shuddered at the memory of the orc arrow in his leg, and the black poison that coursed in his blood. Then he was comforted by the memory of his beloved being wrapped in perfect light. “But I remember the look on your brother’s face, when all hope seemed lost. That is the pain I saw in Bilbo Baggins of the Shire.”

Kili turned and embraced his wife, her head settled on top of his. “Just when I thought all was right in the world. I recovered my uncle, my brother . . . it seems there is always some evil waiting around another corner.”

“Speaking of your uncle,” Tauriel suddenly straightened up, “would you say he’s good at being stealthy?”

“Huh?” Kili turned to the direction she was looking at.

Thorin was sneaking to the stables, looking around constantly to make sure he wasn’t followed or seen. He was trying so hard to move slowly, keeping to the walls, but with his heavy stomping and awkward motions, he looked positively comedic. He was so focused on not being seen from the house, he completely missed the couple watching him from the fields.

Kili could not contain a buff of laughter as Thorin made a very silly bolt towards the stables. The Dwarf king caught sight of the two, changed his stealth mode to mimic a leisurely walk, then hurried back towards the house.

“What in Durin’s name was he up to?” Kili asked, trying to stop laughing.

Tauriel hummed, wondering the same thing.

 

When evening fell, Legolas and Kili were sent to hunt—if any game was to be found in the affected woods. Gandalf continued to sleep soundly, too tired to even stir. Estel too slept, uneasy dreams plaguing his rest.

It was only because of this that the two conspirators were able to sneak away.

The two ponies trod on the scorched earth, moving hesitantly over shattered wood and stone. Thorin waited patiently, holding both of the ponies’ reins, while Bilbo made his way to a space in the woods where all trees had been knocked over. He waited while the Halfling bent over low, picked something from the ruined ground, then made his way back to him.

“Why are we here?” Thorin asked. “The sooner we leave, the better.” Then he noticed what Bilbo was folding in his arms. “Is that—”

The ragged yet sturdy coat Nauro always wore was now folded tightly and being stuffed into Bilbo’s pack. The Hobbit smiled fondly at it as he closed the pack. It was the same coat Bard had gifted to him on the day of his birth, on the shores of Long Lake.

“He loves this thing. He’d be heartbroken if he lost it,” Bilbo smiled weakly, then shouldered his pack, wincing at some lingering pain in his back.

Thorin nodded, then both friends mounted their respective ponies and looked to the darkening forest ahead.

“Any road we take, they’ll be bound to find us,” the Dwarf King spoke. “Especially with Elven horses. They might try to stop us.”

“I’d like to see them try,” Bilbo spoke with grim determination. “So what is our road?”

Thorin held out a small piece of parchment. It was too dark to read properly, but what little Bilbo could see, it was a map to Angmar.

“Seems to be the best course.”

“Where did you get this?”

“The Elf.”

“What, Legolas?!”

Thorin shook his head.

“Tauriel?!"” Bilbo asked surprised. “You spoke with Tauriel?”

“She guessed our intent. We needed help. She was . . .” Thorin seemed to struggle in finding the right word. “Helpful,” he finally grumbled.

“You mean to say you held an entire civil conversation with Tauriel?”

“Shut up.”

“With your Elven daughter in law!”

“She is NOT my daughter in law as Kili is NOT my son!”

“Why, King Under the Mountain, I do believe you are not entirely without hope!”

And the two laughed, softly. In the midst of a ruined wood, facing an uncertain road, and one weighed with terrible grief, two friends still managed to laugh.

“Thorin,” Bilbo said, once the laughter had died down. “Thank you for helping me. Despite everything Smaug has done to you and your people, you still—”

A gloved hand was held up, staying Bilbo’s words.

“Come,” Thorin said, in his regal voice. “Let us find your friend.”

 

The Witch King sat again upon his throne. A horrible sight of rust and spikes meant to resemble a seat. The cloaked figure sat as if he were the Dark Lord himself, enjoying the feel of being back in his court. It was empty, hollow, dark and cold. And he basked in it.

His halls shook. His fortress had been built out from the side of a mountain, so rock and dust sifted through his halls of stone and metal.

His guest was restless.

The worm had done its task, acting the noble winged steed back to his kingdom of Angmar. But once they had settled on the ground, its form continued to shift. Perhaps it was taking its toll on the weak body it now inhabited. It retreated deep into a cave in the mountainside, howling like a pitiful cub. At times, the mountain shook. Clearly when the dragon form held sway, it would move about and move the mountain with it. The human form was quieter.

Of late, however, the mountain shook more and more.

Was the dragon form getting stronger?

The Witch King allowed skeletal fingers scratch at the rust on his throne, and grinned a spectral grin.

_One can only hope . . ._

 

 


	46. The Strange Company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three quests collide!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I’m totally making up the timeline and the distance, so those of you more geographically inclined, please ignore it. The passage of time is more for dramatic effect than actual research. Sorry about that!

Chapter 46: The Strange Company

 

Estel looked out upon another sunset. It had been a month. One long month since that morning when Nauro was still just a man, and Bilbo was safe in their company. Now they were both gone.

A hand slipped into his and squeezed. His heavy heart was lifted as he took Arwen’s hand to his chest and held it there with both of his. It had seemed like a dream; waking up in the stone house, his injuries still raw, and finding Arwen’s beautiful face next to his.

Lord Elrond and his company had arrived from Lórien, and made camp next to the devastated woods. Naturally, there was hardly any room in the small house as it was. Lord Elrond had not taken the news of Bilbo and Thorin’s departure well, though in truth Gandalf did not seem particularly surprised by it. The wizard seemed more penitent than anything.

After many hours spent in council, it was decided the road to Angmar was the only road to take. Motivation was split in the company. Lord Elrond was a practical sage, more concerned with the fate of Middle Earth and the coming darkness than with the wellbeing of three individuals. The alliance between a resurrected Witch King and a dragon posed a threat to all lands, and the utter destruction the two were capable of would all but assure the Dark Lord’s victory. He was willing to risk his soldiers, and even the lives of his kin, in order to deal with this evil while there was still a chance.

The remaining company was driven for the sake of their missing companions. Even Kili would not be left behind when his uncle had just walked willingly into such peril. And stopping Tauriel was just as futile. Needless to say, both Kili and Legolas had tried.

Despite having increased in numbers, the company traveled fast. The horses were strong and their riders grim. After many years of peace in Middle Earth, enemies long thought defeated were on the move again. The Battle of the Five Armies, as the battle of Erebor came to be known, was merely the first step.

They were close now. Estel could see the spiked mountains of the accursed land drawing nearer with every passing day. Standing there, at the edge of the newly settled camp, with his love by his side, he couldn’t stop wondering what awaited them in the coming days.

“You’re worried,” Arwen said.

“Of course I’m worried,” Estel sighed. “At the very least Bilbo is not alone. But Nauro—if he even is still Nauro. And if he’s not, where is he? Did he ever really exist? Was Nauro the soul of that monster or merely an illusion? A result of the memory loss? All these questions . . .” His voice trailed off.

“He was a good soul,” Arwen spoke, gently pulling Estel’s face towards her. “He was kind. Loyal. Silly sometimes. Playful.” The two laughed at this, remembering the pale man’s trickster side. “Does that sound like an illusion?”

Estel was about to answer, but stopped himself. It was in such moments when Arwen was reminded of just how young he still was.

“I just wish— I mean, I don’t blame Bilbo for leaving us behind,” he shook his head. “Our friendship was tested. And we failed. It was easier to simply think of Nauro as a deceased friend and the dragon as a new enemy. To think of them as separate. Even now, I don’t know what to think.”

Arwen had no words. Her aged eyes lingered on a particular wound on his hand. It was still healing, she could see it peeking out from under his sleeve. She knew it ran the length of his forearm. It was one of many gashes, all over his arms, legs and torso. She had taken note of each and every one, and allowed herself to feel the sting and pain of each. She should have known her love would not stay protected behind the magic of Rivendell’s walls forever. And yet, there was a darker deeper side of her heart that wished it so.

 

The camp was bustling with the weary travelers. Though most of the members were Elf guards, it was a welcome rest, and the rich scent of meat being roasted over open fires or refreshing wine being poured filled the camp. Large long tents were set up, for both Lords and guards. They were nearing the dark land, but for now they were safe and could indulge in such comforts. No one really knew what kind of strife awaited them.

Estel and Arwen walked hand in hand to a smaller tent. Its fabric was of a lesser quality than that of the Rivendell Elves, but the company was better.

“Husband, really! I’m pregnant, not an invalid!”

“But you’ve been on your feet all day! You must rest!”

Tauriel and Kili were, as usual, arguing playfully as the tall red head was energetically setting up bowls for dinner around a small fire. Kili was one step behind her the whole time, fussing and fretting. Estel couldn’t entirely blame him. Tauriel’s belly had grown quite a bit in the last month, and all the women present were nervous about her condition. She always shrugged off their concerns and traveled at her own pace.

Both she and the lady Arwen had become fast friends and were often in each other’s company. It was only when Arwen beckoned her to sit and speak to her that Tauriel relinquished the ladle to Kili. The Dwarf was busy filling the bowls when Gandalf and Legolas approached the circle around the small fire.

“Gandalf, what news?” Estel greeted the old wizard, who sighed wearily as he took his place in the circle.

“Elrond and his captain continue to debate—oh, thank you,” Gandalf said to Kili upon receiving his bowl of warm stew. “Once we draw nearer to Angmar, there will be little time for debates. We must move swiftly then.”

“Glad you could come,” Tauriel smiled at Legolas, who had thus far avoided such gatherings with the married couple. It was clear he had come at Gandalf’s insistence.

“Tauriel, do not send your hawk out again. It may draw attention to our company,” the Elf prince spoke sternly, his gaze set on the bowl in his hands.

“How else am I to alert my mother in law of our journey?” she laughed. “She was not particularly happy to hear I was traveling in my condition, but once she understood it involved her—how did she put it?— “bone headed dolt of a brother”, she transferred her rage to him.”

An affectionate laugh came from Gandalf, Kili and Estel. Legolas remained unresponsive. The group ate heartily, and talked and laughed. However, the weight on Gandalf’s soldiers did not escape Arwen’s keen gaze. The old wizard laughed and smiled, making jokes and being silly. But it was clear his thoughts were far from the small gathering.

 

The moon was high in the night sky when Legolas woke Estel, shaking his shoulder urgently. “Scouts report movement,” the Elf prince whispered.

They made their way out of the camp, swords in hand and ready for battle. It had been some time since they’d encountered an orc squad, but it was expected since they were nearing Angmar. One of Elrond’s scouts led them and a few others into the woods, back to where the squad had been spotted. Few noticed the stealthy young Dwarf following after them.

Hidden behind thick foliage, the Elven scouts drew closer to the approaching squad. The figures were loud, their gear making as much noise as their stomping. Estel couldn’t help but be grateful for the carelessness of orcs.

Then the wind shifted and distinct scents invaded his nostrils. He realized with dread there was a second squadron. The Elven scouts soon became aware of it and tried to spread out, preparing for the attack. This second squadron was different. They were stealthy and careful. Were it not for their keener senses, the Elves may not have sensed their presence at all.

Before Estel could try to figure out how these two squadrons were both made up of clumsy orcs, one of the scouts was tackled and knocked to the ground.

_Impossible! Who could sneak up on an Elf?!_

Chaos ensued. Thin slick swords were drawn and clashed into thick heavy steel. It was suddenly difficult to distinguish friend and foe when some figures stood tall and clad in dark brown cloaks, while others were short and stout. Estel found himself face to face with one of the taller stealthier figures. Despite his heavy training and several months of constant fighting, Estel was quickly overcome and a small knife was pressed to his neck. Instead of killing him, as an orc would, the figure called out in a strong voice.

_“Daro!”_

At the sound of Elvish, the fray ceased instantly. The knife was removed from Estel’s throat though the figure behind him remained tense.

_“Peditham hi sui vellyn?”_

To Legolas’ keen ear, the speech may have been flawless but there was still an accent. “Who are you?”

The tall figure then sheathed his sword, and the others followed suit. He removed his hood to reveal dark wild hair. Keen dark eyes peered out from under it, from a face with no discernable age. The figure could have easily been a youth of twenty or a man twice that age.

“Well met. I did not think to see any of the woodland kin in these parts,” the stranger spoke in a voice as handsome as his face. “I am Halbarad of the North. We are the Dunedáin rangers.”

Then he tilted his head and in a display of elegance, offered his hand out from his heart. A gesture known to all Elven kind. The Dunedain rangers were oft spoken of by the fire, among soldiers and high lords. They seemed more like ghosts, specters of a bygone era who delivered justice upon the wicked. The scouts, as well as Legolas and Estel, were so taken aback by the stranger’s announcement, they all but forgot about their other opponents, whose weapons remained held high.

“We have been scouting this region for months now,” Halbarad continued. “Ever since the throne of Angmar was occupied anew. We were on our nightly patrol when we learned of an orc pack sneaking about—”

“We are no orcs!” one of the small cloaked figures spoke out. The large bulky weapon was lowered and a thick hood removed. Dirty blond locks flowed freely and clear blue eyes glared at Halbarad. He spoke with as much strength and elegance as the Dunedain ranger. “We are the Dwarves of Erebor, and we have come—”

“FILI!!!”

The elegant tone was interrupted as the overly eager Kili (who had just caught up with the others) leapt out of the brush and threw his arms around his brother.

The two Dwarves laughed merrily and full heartedly, with the shorter of the two lifting the other up and shaking him in his arms. It was some time before they released from their embrace. Whatever tension or hesitation lingered among the warriors dissolved and many couldn’t help but laugh at the situation.

All others cloaked removed their hoods, and it was revealed there were no enemies present. The rangers were made up of other grim yet handsome Men, while the smaller figures were all Dwarves, who quickly joined the two brothers and loudly cheered at the reunion.

 

Lord Elrond was waiting for the returning groups. Fires had been re-stoked and food was prepared. It was far too late for such a reception, but the lord of Rivendell thought it fitting given the company present. While the Elves greeted the rangers as equals, Estel found himself more taken in by the Dwarves.

After all of Bilbo’s stories, he was eager to meet them and hear what tale they had to tell. He learned the names of the others while Kili eagerly introduced Fili to Tauriel, as his wife. There were eight in total—Dwalin, Bofur, Bombur, Bifur, Dori, Nori, Ori and Fili, of course.

“Where are the others?” Kili asked, looking around and clapping shoulders.

“Left Balin in charge,” Fili answered, his smile still stretched wide. “Gloin said he’d lend a hand, and Oin declared he was just “too old for this.” I thought a smaller group would be better either way. If it were up to Dwalin, we would have brought a whole platoon.”

“Hmph,” Dwalin grumbled, “can’t deny it’d work.”

“Ah, yer just sour cuz you’ve been training ‘em so hard,” Bofur added. “Me, I ‘ad to drag Bombur away from the kitchens. ‘Ee was gettin’ a little too well known there!”

“Nothing compared to the Erebor library,” Ori brightened up. “They’re almost done with the renovations. Some of those scrolls are centuries old!”

The Dwarves went on and on about the renewed Erebor and what wonders and challenges the city held for them. The more they spoke, the less Estel understood their presence there. And Kili was far too happy to be among them, it seemed he had quite forgotten to ask.

“What brings you so far from the Mountain?” Tauriel asked instead. “Was it Thorin you sought?”

“Thorin?” Fili asked. “He journeyed to Rivendell, several months past now. I have had no word of him.”

“Then why—” Kili started, but stopped at the sight of Fili’s scowl.

“The Arkenstone,” the Dwarf prince answered grimly. “It was stolen. Its keepers murdered. There was no sign of any intruder, but witnesses claimed it was one of the Angmar specters.”

“One of nine,” an old voice joined the conversation. Gandalf walked among them, an anxious look in his eyes. Though his tone was grim, he still greeted each Dwarf with an affectionate nod or pat on the back. “Nine cloaked specters, wandering, hovering in the shadows.”

“But why?” Legolas asked. “What is the Arkenstone to them?”

Gandalf was silent, but deep in thought. He clearly remembered the last time he saw the Arkenstone. In the hands of the Witch King of Angmar, its light emanating an eerie hue rather than its usual splendor. Fili answered instead.

“I don’t know, but Thorin left me in charge in his absence. It is the King’s jewel. What kind of king would I be if I cannot even secure our House’s heirloom?”

“And I said let them have the dratted thing,” Dwalin suddenly spoke up. “It’s caused ‘nuff trouble.”

“Not really your decision now, is it?” Dori interjected, earning a growl in response.

There was much discussion that night and little rest. The Dwarves were surprised by the adventure Legolas and Estel described—though admittedly they were not surprised by Thorin’s actions. It took quite some time to comprehend the notion that Smaug, chiefest and greatest of calamities, air-borne fire breathing dragon who had stolen their homeland and killed their people, was now a man.

At some point in the evening, Fili was called to Lord Elrond’s tent. He was accompanied by Gandalf, Legolas, Estel and of course Kili. In the test, there was also Halbarad, the leader of the Dunedain rangers. It was a small council, and not much of interest happened in it. It was decided that the rangers and Dwarves would join their company, as their road was the same. And the threat at the end of it was great.

It was a strange alliance, and even Elrond admitted to Gandalf that he had not seen its like for many centuries. The Elven Lord had seen a time when Men and Elves united against a common enemy and fought side by side. But he had yet to see a company that involved Dwarves as well. Despite the larger numbers, the company went on at a fast pace.

For the most part, the groups kept to their own, save for the smaller group that saw three Elves, one Man, one Wizard, and a handful of Dwarves going together.

Estel was interested in the Dunedain rangers, and was often drawn to their company. Having grown up in Rivendell, he had not known many other Men, but Halbarad was unlike any he had known. There was something familiar about the rangers. Something that reminded him greatly of his mother’s strength, of the histories of old. He knew well they were descendants of Númenor, and it was clear in their bearing. But there were other qualities that caught his eye, and steadily doubt started to creep into his already restless heart.

Such doubts however had to wait, for it was not too long before one night they found themselves but a few feet away from the gates of Angmar.

And such dreaded gates were flung wide open.

“This is a trap,” Fili whispered as the armed company stood at the threshold.

“Of course it is,” Gandalf answered.

“Well, it’s rude to falter at the doorstep,” Halbarad said with a trickster’s grin, drawing his sword and leading his men to advance.

They were slow. Weapons at the ready, eyes open and ears keen. They turned to every sound, every rustle in the desert rocks around them. It was a ruined land. What little plants could grow from the cracked earth were in a pitiful state, and the trees were gnarled and bald. Thin streams appeared about, but the water was murky and smelled foul. The dust seemed to cling to their skin like ticks, and scratched at their throats mercilessly. And every rock formation held promise of danger.

They were past the gates, and still there was nothing. The silence beat at their very ears.

Nothing stirred.

“Be on your guard,” Elrond commanded, and the sound of his strong voice startled the ruined land.

They had traveled quite far, leaving the terrible gates behind them, when the long awaited ambush finally came.

It was quick and brutal. The Elves fought with elegance and unnatural accuracy. The Men were stealthy and swift. The Dwarves hardy and fierce. Swords sang, arrows pierced, and blades were bathed in inky black blood. The orcs were merciless, but they could not withstand the combined forces. It was not long before their numbers dwindled, and several fled into the dark.

In the midst of the battle, a cry from the Dwarves rang out. Gandalf could not quite make it out, so busy was he in keeping his head intact. There were two particular brutes that were quite intent on taking it from his neck. The Dwarves continued their cheers, and the weary wizard assumed it was merely their overzealousness in battle.The typical _“Dubeka!”_ or some other nonsense. It was only when he had finally slain his assailants that he clearly heard “To the King! Hail the King Under the Mountain!”

He turned to the raucous, which would have been his downfall. A cowardly filth had wrapped long horrid arms around the wizard’s legs and sent him tumbling down. The creature scrambled over Gandalf and held up its rusted blade, ready to bring it down on his chest.

When the blade fell, it was to the ground, as the orc filth’s lifeless body slumped to the side. Gandalf lifted himself up heavily and looked around for his savior. He would later admit that never in his most wildest dreams would he have expected to see Belladonna Took’s son standing there, an Elven blade glowing blue and black.

Bilbo looked quite shaken—he was a decent fellow and hated fighting. There was nothing he hated more than killing, even if it was an orc. But once he looked up to meet Gandalf’s grateful face, a glimmer of the smart alecky Hobbit shone through. His face was pale and worn, filthy from many nights of sleeping rough. And yet, he still conjured his brightest smile and asked:

“Really now, what time do you call this?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvish:
> 
> Daro! = Stop! 
> 
> Peditham hi sui vellyn? = May we speak now as friends?


	47. In the Land of Specters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There has been no sight or sound of a dragon in Angmar. Is this good news or bad?

 

Chapter 47: In the Land of Specters

 

They were deep in enemy territory, and there was no time to stop. Not at night; this was the orcs’ domain. It was only when the sun finally rose, pale and dreary, that Thorin and Bilbo received their welcome.

The Dwarf King had arrived in the middle of the ambush, protecting his fellow Dwarves from cowardly attacks. Bilbo had kept to the shadows (using his ring of course) and only interfered when he saw Gandalf in danger.

Once light flooded the land, Thorin regarded his two nephews. Seeing them stand side by side, Thorin almost felt like they were back in the Blue Mountains, long before reclaiming Erebor had parted them. Seeing them now, it was simply . . . right.

“Thorin!” Fili took a hesitant step forwards. “I—I’m sorry, I know you left me in charge of Erebor but I—”

It had been too long, and Thorin was so tired. In a moment of weariness—and relief—he simply embraced his nephew and stopped his words. The other Dwarves swarmed around them.

Bilbo, on the other hand, was being questioned heavily by Gandalf, Estel and Legolas. Not that he could answer since they were all excitedly speaking at the same time.

As the day wore on, the camp was set up. They were no longer mere travelers, but like an army at war. Guards, both Elven and Human, surrounded the camp. Despite orcs having no love of daylight, weapons were still ever at the ready.

Outside Elrond’s tent, another council was held. Those present were as follows: Lord Elrond, his two sons, Arwen, Estel, Legolas, Halbarad and his second, Thorin with Fili and Kili, Gandalf and Bilbo. When Elrond called the meeting to order, Thorin walked to the center of the circle. Bilbo was next to him the whole time.

On the dry ground, the Dwarf king proceeded to draw a detailed map of the area with a long thin stick. He explained how both he and Bilbo had arrived at Angmar over a fortnight past, and had spent their time mapping out the area surrounding the stronghold, taking note of scouts and patrols and such. Their information was useful and for strategists like Elrond and Halbarad, worth its weight in gold. The Elf lord, however, was not entirely satisfied.

“You’ve been busy,” he said.

His tone annoyed Thorin. It always seemed like the Elf lord was hinting at something with every word. “We had to come up with a plan, after all,” he answered.

“A plan? For what?”

A heavy silence fell upon the circle. And the division of tasks was clear. Most were there to deal with a terrible threat. While the two lone travelers, standing determined in the center, were there to rescue a friend.

“There’s good news and bad news,” Bilbo said suddenly. “Good news first.” He paused and looked about the circle, finally locking eyes with Gandalf. “No dragon. We’ve been here a little more than a fortnight and there has been no sign or sight of any dragon at any time. However, we have overheard orcs talking amongst themselves. They speak of someone in the caverns that run beneath Angmar’s stronghold.”

At this, Bilbo took Thorin’s stick and pointed at the drawing of Angmar’s castle. All eyes were now on the crude drawing that included spiked towers and an ominous feel.

“The master’s guest, they say,” Bilbo went on. “I believe that’s where Nauro is being held.”

None reacted to the name as much as Estel and Legolas. Bilbo’s heart felt hope again.

Perhaps even they had not quite abandoned their friend.

“There? You mean, right under the Witch King’s nose?” Halbarad spoke up.

“There is a whole underground system of interconnected caverns beneath the castle,” Thorin supported Bilbo. “Not even the orcs can find their way without some kind of system.”

“And that’s the bad news,” the Hobbit grimaced, and suddenly dove into a long stream of nervous babble, avoiding everyone’s eyes, especially Elrond’s. “Well, we had hoped we could arrange a distraction. Long enough to draw out Angmar’s forces from the stronghold, engage them elsewhere, while a small group enters the tunnels. We wouldn’t actually fight, mind you, just a diversion.”

Elrond’s eyebrows lifted questioningly.

“O—of course, back then we thought about smaller—much smaller!—numbers,” Bilbo went on nervously, his twitching fingers moving all about and his arms gesticulating getting wider. “We were counting on Gandalf, Legolas and Estel and, well, I had rather hoped maybe Gandalf could make some kind of illusion of an army while Legolas and Estel added some credibility. Enough to draw them out anyway—”

“Bilbo—” Estel started.

“We were certainly not expecting an actual armed force,” he looked to Elrond at this, and his gaze became grim but determined. “I know what you’re thinking, and you’re wrong. Nauro is not your enemy here.”

“As I understand, he no longer answers to that name,” the Elf lord spoke with a sympathetic voice. He may have been a lord and a war-weary leader, but he was still a good soul. And in the three years the Hobbit and the stranger were his guests, he had grown very fond of them. He hid it well, but the current circumstance did pain him.

“They did something,” Bilbo said urgently. “Some kind of enchantment. He’s not himself. I can reach him. I know it! When he became a—well, a dragon, it wasn’t the same. I can’t explain it, but it’s almost like he couldn’t take shape. I’ve seen Smaug with my own eyes, and that dragon in the woods was much smaller and just—less! He wasn’t strong or—or manipulative or witty, he was just—confused and all over the place.”

“It is true,” Gandalf spoke up, much to Bilbo’s surprise and relief. “The creature in the woods was not Smaug.”

Something faltered in Elrond’s gaze. It was only slight, but Bilbo took it as a glimmer of hope.

The stern eyebrows then turned to Halbarad.

“There have been no sightings of the dragon in over a month,” the ranger confirmed. “But orcs we’ve questioned do boast of its presence, and how their time will come again. They will build their new kingdom from the ashes left in the wake of the dragon’s fire.”

“There will be no dragon fire, not if we get Nauro back,” Bilbo urged.

The rangers were not convinced, and it was perhaps only through Gandalf and Elrond’s affections that the next course was set. They were to march to Angmar’s stronghold, under the poor light of day while they had a chance.

But fortune was not with them.

 

It was another two days that they were in sight of the stronghold, though it was still at a far distance. Night had fallen, which forced them to stop and be on guard. The usual assault on their company was expected, but this time their numbers were greater. And their attack continuous and even fiercer. It was as if they hoped their strengthened ferocity would match the combined skills of Elves, Men and Dwarves.

The company was still able to push them back and advance further towards the stronghold. As the fight went on, every member felt a fell eye intent upon their progress. Something that lurked in the tallest spiked tower of Angmar, and watched their every move. This evening of strife, another presence joined the fray. And all of Bilbo’s hopes were shattered.

The dark sky lit up with terrible flames. Even the orcs froze at the ground-shaking roars. And friends and foes alike quailed when the monstrous creature was seen circling the skies, like carrion fowl.

Ominous silence weighed upon every soul as the dragon swooped down upon them, then there was chaos and all fled in terror. What little vegetation survived in such a land went up in flames, and the dry gnarled trees merely stoked the powerful flames.

There was no cover to be found, but random rock formations. Because of this, the company was greatly scattered in the frenzy, while the enemy orcs vanished into tunnels or perished in the fire. The dragon hovered and gave chase. It circled about the cowering masses once, twice and a third time. Then, it gasped and horrid choking sounds erupted from its long throat. As if it were struggling for breath. Its usual smooth flight wavered, and the wings seemed to fail, unable to carry its own weight.

At the sound of the heavy rasping, Bilbo dared step out of his hiding place and watch the flailing creature. It was still far smaller than the Smaug he had met. Clumsier too. He was reminded of Nauro’s initial awkwardness in Dale. As if becoming accustomed to a foreign body that was beyond his control. This was more like a fledgling dragon, unaware of its own strength and power. He very nearly forgot himself and almost ventured from his place of safety, only to be pulled back by Dwalin.

The creature gathered some semblance of control and managed to fly back into the sky, back to the stronghold. Perhaps it was merely the echo of its massive wings, but to some there seemed to be a deep rumbling laugh reverberating in the night. Only then could everyone breathe again.

There had been no casualties on their part, though there were several orc corpses that had not managed to escape the inferno. There were injured to be tended, but worst of all was the fear that now beat in everyone’s hearts. Both Dori and Ori had suffered injuries, while protecting each other from the pursuing flames. Thorin and his Dwarves were given their own tent to share, and they kept watch over their injured comrades. Arwen and Tauriel were with the healers, while Gandalf was in conference with Elrond and Halbarad. Allies for Bilbo’s cause were now difficult to find.

“Bilbo, you have to see reason,” Legolas pleaded that night, as they rested in their new camp. “You can no longer be blind to the facts—”

“You saw it, didn’t you?” Bilbo continued passionately. “He still can’t take shape. Not fully! It’s like he’s fighting to keep that form but something prevents it. What if THAT is Nauro? That part of him that won’t transform. It’s possible!”

“There was nothing human in that creature,” Estel chimed in. “It made no sign of having even the capacity for thinking. It was just—an animal.”

“We don’t know that. We don’t know anything. I will not give up hope!”

It was then that Gandalf entered the tent. He sat down in the center of the tent, visibly weighed down.

“I’m afraid,” the old wizard started, “the decision has been made. We are to wait for reinforcements from Lórien. Word has been sent today, with Tauriel’s hawk. With more numbers and the Lady of Light we will be better equipped to deal with the Witch King and his forces. Her power is our best chance to counter his. Meantime, we are to hold our position here.”

“But that is not what troubles you,” Legolas noted.

Gandalf placed a heavy hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, I could not dissuade them,” he said, and from the grief in his gaze, Bilbo shuddered. “The risk is just too great. You mustn’t think ill of them. They are merely thinking of what is best for all—”

“What are they going to do?” Bilbo pressed, afraid.

Gandalf sighed. “They agree that the dragon is weak, quite possibly unaware of its full might.”

Bilbo’s eyes widened with dread. “They’re going to kill him.”

Estel gasped, while Legolas buried his face in his hands. The weight of what this meant striking at their hearts.

“The rangers have agreed,” the wizard went on, his voice cracking. “At first light, they will dispatch some of their finest and stealthiest to the caverns beneath Angmar’s castle. There, they will seek out the dragon and . . . well, we know its weakness. The bare patch under the left wing.” Then Gandalf stopped and passed his hand over his eyes.

Bilbo was mute for a moment, shaking his head. When he finally found his words, he took Gandalf’s hands in his own. “You can’t let them do this. Please, Gandalf, ask them to reconsider. Let me go in first. I can reach him. I just need to talk to him. You have to let me try!”

Gandalf shook his head. And when he lifted his gaze, there was something conspiratorial in his eyes. “You’ll be needing _it_ , of course,” the old wizard said with a half smile, glancing at Bilbo’s vest pocket. Bilbo smiled and nodded.

Legolas and Estel exchanged confused looks.

“Need what? What are you talking about?”

“Can you stall them?” Bilbo ignored the two.

“I can most certainly try, but you’ll have to hurry!”

“You’re not sending him in there alone!” Legolas exclaimed.

“We’ll come too!” Estel said, standing to his feet.

“No, I’ll have to go fast. No one will see me. Trust me!” Bilbo said, his hand fumbling in his vest pocket as he started for the opening of the tent.

And ran straight into a bone crushing grip.

Four rangers had gathered outside the tent, grim faced and stern. No one inside had even heard them approach. One of them was holding Bilbo’s arms, a little too tight. Gandalf, Legolas and Estel hurried out and were greeted by Halbarad.

“Master Baggins,” the ranger spoke in his usual calm and diplomatic tone. Bilbo found it grating in that moment. “You must come with us. I am to be your host for the evening.”

“What?!” Bilbo exclaimed.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Legolas and Estel advance on the rangers, but were stopped by Gandalf. Behind him, Arwen and Tauriel were drawn by the raised voices. They kept their distance, but both looked just as eager to intervene.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to insist,” Halbarad continued and the large hands on Bilbo’s arms tightened even more.

“What is the meaning of this?” Gandalf demanded in a gruff voice.

“It will be in his vest pocket,” another voice spoke out and both Gandalf and Bilbo froze. It was Elladan, Elrond’s eldest son, who stood impassive next to Halbarad. “Take it from him.”

Another ranger helped remove Bilbo’s coat and tear off his vest. Bilbo tried to cling to the vest, which contained his ring and all chance of escaping the camp unseen. Of course, he was no match for the two rangers who stopped him with no more effort than they were stopping a flailing child. At this his friends openly objected and attempted to stop this. The other rangers stood in their way, with hands on their hilts, but Halbarad did not allow them to draw any weapons. Gandalf too tried to prevent a fight.

“We are all on the same side here,” Halbarad spoke, his hands held out.

The small vest was handed over to Elladan, who folded it over his arm.

“Lord Elladan!” Gandalf addressed the Elf lord outraged, while holding a restraining hand on Estel’s shoulder.

“I overheard you and my father discuss the Halfling’s trinket,” Elladan explained, “and where it was kept. We have but one chance to rid ourselves of this threat. If we are to succeed in this task, we cannot have . . . sentiment get in the way.”

Despite his words and demeanor, it was clear he took no joy in these actions. He too had gotten to know the Halfling well in Rivendell, and he could not meet Estel’s scornful gaze.

“I will speak to father at once!” Arwen took a step forward and grasped her brother’s sleeve.

“You may. Though it hardly seems worth it. This precaution is only until morning. And you may find Lord Elrond neutral on this matter.” With this the Elf lord walked away.

Halbarad signaled his rangers and lead them back to their side of the camp, the small Hobbit escorted on all sides. Bilbo did not struggle against the ranger who held him, but he continued to stare at Gandalf pleadingly.

The wizard could only stare back.

 

Thorin waited anxiously. Kili had brought news from Tauriel of the Rangers’ decision to detain Bilbo. Not wanting to draw attention, he sent Nori to investigate. Now, he paced from one side of the large tent to the other. His companions and nephews watched him. Everyone looked up eagerly when the familiar spiky haired Dwarf returned, tossing his black hood off.

“Nori, what news?” Thorin stepped forward.

“They ‘ave ‘im in the ‘ead ranger’s tent. Got a couple guards on ‘im,” Nori reported.

“I don’t understand. Why?” Ori spoke up from his resting place, wincing at his injuries.

“Keep him from warnin’ the dragon,” Dwalin answered gruffly. “Can’t say I entirely blame ‘em.” He shrugged off Thorin’s glare.

“Strange thing is,” Nori went on with his report, “one of the pointy ears ‘ad ‘em take his vest.”

“His vest?!” Bofur asked, confused.

“Aye, ‘parently Bilbo’s got a couple tricks up his sleeve. Or vest, I suppose. Pointy ‘ad it hanging in his own tent.”

“Do you think you can retrieve it?” Thorin asked.

“Please!” Nori laughed. “Ah got one better. Left the vest behind, but found this instead.”

The Dwarves squinted at the sight of a small golden band in the Dwarf’s gloved hand.

“A ring?”

“Not just any old ring. Look!”

Stools were knocked over. Several voices gasped at once, and more than one jaw dropped as Nori twirled the ring in the air, caught it, slipped it onto his finger and . . .

Vanished!

 


	48. To Dungeons Deep and Caverns Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo ventures into the dark. What will he find? 
> 
> Or rather . . . who?

 

Chapter 48: To Dungeons Deep and Caverns Old

 

Bilbo could not sit still. Other than the rough handling in taking his vest—and the ring—the Rangers had not been unkind to him. He was offered food and hot water for tea. Halbarad had even tried starting a conversation about the Shire, of which he was very curious. But Bilbo was not in the mood to talk about home. He had tried instead to appeal to them and spoke about Nauro. But the Ranger only offered him sympathy, as if his friend was already dead and gone.

In truth, he was rather relieved when the Ranger left, encouraging him to get some sleep. With the rage and helplessness and fear he felt, there was no sleep to be had. He was plagued with images of a weak creature overcome by darkness, and left to perish.

Tears threaten to flow freely. He had to get to Nauro! It couldn’t end like this!

That was when distant voices from outside flooded the tent. He could not make them out, but from what he could see, Thorin, flanked by Fili and Kili, was speaking to Halbarad. For a moment, Bilbo hoped he had come to help appeal his cause, but then he heard his two guards speak amongst themselves.

“How very like Dwarves, fleeing back to their holes when they are most needed,” one scoffed.

 _What?_ Bilbo thought. _The Dwarves are returning to Erebor?!_

The betrayal barely had time to settle in his mind when Thorin’s figure appeared out of the darkness and stood defiant before the two guards.

“Let him pass,” Halbarad’s voice came from out of the night. The guards made way, and Thorin entered in a few determined strides.

“What is this about you leaving?”

“This is not our war,” Thorin said, his voice stoic.

“What are you talking about?! You mean to run and hide behind your precious walls—” Bilbo’s outrage was interrupted as Thorin suddenly embraced him. Very much the same way he had embraced him that faraway day on the Carrock, which for Bilbo marked the beginning of their friendship.

“I have come to bid you farewell, my friend! It was the least I could do after our many journeyings!” Thorin said loudly, in a painfully fake tone. Bilbo was beyond confused and tried to pull out of the embrace to ask what was going on.

That was when he felt something small and heavy fall into his coat pocket.

Thorin had just slipped the ring into his pocket! Then the ruse of returning to Erebor was merely a trick to get the Rangers to allow him to see Bilbo? He couldn’t help but grin a bit at the Dwarf’s plan.

The two friends pulled away slowly and Thorin’s piercing gaze met with Bilbo. He nodded, then started stepping backwards.

“The gates of Erebor will always be open to you,” he said, his “acting voice” completely gone, replaced by a genuine tone.

Bilbo nodded, gratitude practically pulsing in his intent gaze. With one final head tilt, Thorin exited the tent, and disappeared into the night, followed by his two nephews.

Bilbo stuffed what was left of the bread and cold meat into his pockets, then slipped into the blankets the Rangers had offered. He lay there for some time, slowing his breathing in order to keep up the pretense of sleep.

Then he put on the ring.

 

For once in his life, Bilbo was grateful for the presence of orcs. Otherwise, he would have been in complete darkness.

How long he had been traveling the tunnels beneath Angmar’s stronghold, he could not say. There was no change in day and night underground. His only light came from the faint blue glow of Sting. Being deep in a land infested by orcs, it was only natural his small Elf blade would always gleam. But the deeper he ventured into the dark, the dimmer the light became. He wasn’t sure what he would do when it faded entirely.

What little food he had stuffed in his pockets was long gone. He was parched, and though he had become accustomed to going with less food than in his Shire days, his empty stomach was cramping. Yet he did not stop. He couldn’t stop. He had to keep going.

The way started winding down. His feet encountered steps naturally formed from the very rock. The only sound he had heard was the slapping of his own feet on hard rocky ground. He had gotten far too used to it, so when another sound joined it, he was startled.

It began as a hum. A low deep rumbling hum reverberating off the rocks around him. As well as he could, he followed after it. As he got closer, words started to form. It was not a language he knew, but sometimes he thought he heard some Elvish words thrown here and there. Something about starlight, and darkness.

The voice took on a more human tone, and rather than sounding threatening, it became mournful. And it pierced Bilbo’s heart.

Suddenly, it stopped.

The light from Sting dimmed and went out. Bilbo stopped in utter darkness. He couldn’t see a thing. There was no sound save his own breathing as he tried to calm himself. He shut his eyes, breathing deeply. Then he tried to recreate the humming, adding words in the Common Tongue. Not his best work, but he could hardly be blamed given the circumstance.

He drew strength from the singing and was able to keep moving, holding out his hands to feel his way along the tunnel. He felt the rocks vibrating beneath his hands. The humming had started up again, joining his song. It became his guide and he followed it, deeper and deeper into the dark.

 

For Nauro, it was always dark.

Life had become merely a series of feverish memories, intertwined with few moments of clarity. His body was in constant physical pain, shifting and warping. For the most part, he was no longer sure what was real and what wasn’t. Rivendell. The view from Elrond’s home. A sky full of stars. His companions. None of it seemed real. Merely an illusion to escape the darkness and soothe the pain.

But what a lovely illusion.

Huddled in the dark, he plucked fragments from his dreams. Bits of a song he thought he heard in a chamber filled with dancing light and singing voices. Bits of a language that eased pain and brought warmth.

Then another voice joined his. A voice that conjured more and more of the illusion. A face came with the voice. A face he often conjured out of the dark. But it wasn’t real.

“Nauro?”

His heart froze. This time the voice sounded far too real. It actually echoed off the walls.

“Nauro, is that you?”

His eyes blinked past the dark. There was a small figure, there on the steps, suspended in the middle of the thick inky blackness. He shut his eyes and shook his head. It wasn’t possible. It was just a dream. Just an illusion—

Illusions didn’t tend to make noise as they walked. Nor did they have any scent. Golden gleaming eyes opened again. The figure was drawing closer, his breath raged and his footfalls heavy, scraping against the rocky ground.

Nauro’s throat tightened. He could hardly speak past the dry raw feel in his mouth. It took some time before he could properly conjure his voice to speak.

“Bilbo?”

 

The Hobbit gasped. The voice was small, weak. It did not sound like his deep voiced friend. Granted, it did not sound like the forked tongued dragon either, for which he was very thankful. Bilbo continued to strain his eyes, trying hard to see. There was a shape in the darkness. But from where he was standing, he couldn’t tell where it ended or began. It could have easily been a crouching man or something much bigger lying in wait. At the sound of the voice, however, he was sure it was Nauro and he hurried forwards.

“Nauro! Thank goodness!”

The black mass moved, as if it had been struck. It was cowering away from him!

Bilbo was instantly reminded of the dream he had been plagued with in Beorn’s home. The one with a frail pitiful creature begging him to keep away from a dark cavern. “It’s dark inside!” the poor shadow of Nauro had spoken in the dream. Well, it was dark indeed, but the determined Hobbit pushed further into it.

“No. No, no, no!” the cowering figure started softly, then its raspy voice escalated. “You can’t be here! You were supposed to stay away!”

“Nauro, don’t be afraid! I’m here!”

“No! Get out! You have to go, now!”

“I’m not going anywhere!”

“No, please . . .”

The voice died down, and the black mass gathered itself into a corner and shriveled up. So much so, Bilbo could no longer tell if it was even there anymore. The walls of the cavern had eaten it up. Even then, Bilbo knew he was not alone.

“Nauro?” he asked tentatively, reaching out in the direction of the figure.

There was a deep rumble, and the dank cold air became stiflingly hot. It sounded like it was all around him. Like the wall that stretched before him was in fact a large belly, and it was breathing. Bilbo took a step back.

The black mass had actually shifted into the very wall. It was taking a great and terrible shape which loomed over him. He fell backwards and scrambled away as a long neck stretched out into the vast dark. He was halfway back up the steps he had climbed down when the breathing fell into a rhythm, like a cat’s purr. But there was nothing soothing in it.

A large head with a long snout formed at the top of the inky black neck, and though he could not see them, Bilbo knew terrible golden eyes were looking down at him.

“Please . . .” a guttural rumbling voice Bilbo remembered well spoke, “do come in. If you dare that is.”

 

The serpent-like shape seemed to tense in surprise as the small figure took one small step after another back into its space. It was shaking, quaking and reeking of fear and sweat. Yet it came closer.

“Come now, don’t be shhhhyyyy,” Smaug recalled his words from three years past, and he delighted in the way the skulking creature’s fear increased at the sound of them. Its heart was beating like a small mouse’s. Any faster and it would beat its way out of its chest.

 

All words failed Bilbo. His ears pulsed with the sound of his own heart racing. His lungs refused to obey him and took in far too little air. If only he could stop shaking.

“I—” he started, but his parched tongue stopped his words. He tried again. “I—I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

He was speaking these words while looking straight into the shrouded face of a dragon, but it was not to the dragon he spoke. The sculpted black mass suddenly dipped back into the cavern’s ground and for a moment melded into the darkness. When it arose again, it was tall, slick and thin. It shaped itself into a man, and Bilbo felt himself sigh in relief.

Then it moved. The man-like form moved unnaturally. As if it hovered. As if it had no use for legs, or any of its limbs for that matter. Its whole body moved in single motions, just like the serpent’s neck had. Even the head and neck undulated back and forth with the rest of slick body.

It was moving closer.

Bilbo was suddenly more afraid than he had been at the dragon shaped mass. He was frozen in place. Not just in fear though. There was something else at work. Some icy force that seemed to course in his very blood and control his body. The figure was upon him, but before Bilbo had time to shriek in fear, his mind went blank.

As if he had been struck, he collapsed. Falling, falling into an immeasurable abyss.

Icy limbs seemed to catch him, and an unnatural honeyed voice whispered: “Don’t say he didn’t warn you . . .”

 


	49. Flickering Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo meets the Voice in the Dark . . . personally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all. As we’re nearing the end of the fic (not there yet, but it’s close! sniff) I will try to go back to a schedule for updates. Work is going to be more and more hectic but what I’m going to aim for is post one chapter per week. Think that will be more manageable than three. Sorry about that! Anyhoo, hope you enjoy!

Chapter 49: Flickering Light

 

Consciousness returned slowly, and Bilbo became aware of clashing temperatures in his body. His back was cold from the hard rocky ground beneath him, while his face and entire left side was warm. He recognized the sounds of a crackling fire. He opened his eyes to the sight of a small fire, burning healthily. The only light in pure darkness.

Then he remembered.

He sat up in fear and looked around. Other than what little ground the fire lit, there was nothing to be seen. Bilbo felt he and his little fire were the only thing existing in the black, and took what little comfort he could in the thought that as long as he stayed in the light he would be safe.

A deep voice danced about him. Circling, echoing, rumbling off of unseen rocks.

“Thief . . . Liar . . .”

Bilbo shuddered, trying to find the source of the voice.

“He who walks unseen . . .”

They were the very words he had spoken to Smaug, what seemed like ages ago now.

“Luck Wearer . . . Riddle Maker . . . Barrel Rider!”

The last was spoken with an empty dry laugh. Bilbo tried to hide how much that made up name affected him, for it was the one that doomed an entire town.

“Only now, we have a name . . .”

His breathing hitched at this, and a different kind of terror flooded his veins.

“Bilbo Baggins, of Bag End, under the Hill in Hobbiton, in the beautiful peaceful Shire.”

Images of his home, the green hills and flowers, the tall trees and bountiful bushes, suddenly plagued his mind. Only now, they were all ablaze. Screams and faces frozen in horror fled from the flames. Bilbo had to shake his head to banish such horrific sights.

The taunting voice went on as if it knew what he had just seen. A tall figure stepped closer. The Hobbit was—however slightly—relieved that the shape was once more like a man, and not a dragon. It was slimmer and much taller than Nauro, but from what little features Bilbo could make out, it was undoubtedly him. At least physically. The way the cold golden eyes regarded him was akin to a serpent locking eyes with its prey. And that smile . . . even at his most mischievous, Nauro would never smile like that.

Bilbo stood then, clearing his throat and holding the ghoulish man’s gaze. It took every bit of strength not to quail, to stop his fidgeting fingers and shaking legs. He kept close to the fire to his side.

“I took the liberty,” a white hand with unnaturally long fingers pointed at the fire. “It can get rather cold in the deep places of the world.”

The voice was deep and rich, but seemed to be dripping with poisoned honey. Bilbo steeled himself to speak, gathering his words from a parched and sandy throat.

“Nauro—”

The man was on him in an instant, latching a steely grip over his mouth. It was then he could see his full features, and how warped they had become. In that moment, he could have easily snapped his neck with that one hand. And Bilbo’s mind went blank as he whole heartedly believed he would.

“Now, now, none of that,” Nauro’s head tilted to the side, and the smile curled wider. “None of that filthy Elvish here! You know my true name.”

The hand loosened its hold, and instead, in mock tenderness, hovered over Bilbo’s cheek. Icy tips grazed over trembling skin. The threat remained, and the Hobbit once again had to steady his breathing. “Use it,” he spoke, in a deceptively softer voice.

“In fact,” he stepped back, slowly, each step drawing him back into the dark, “I’d like to hear you say it.”

Silence reigned.

“Say it,” he snapped.

The dark swallowed him further. Bilbo audibly gulped.

“SAY MY NAME!” as the figure faded into darkness, the giant dragon voice shook the cave with the demand.

For some reason, this did not frighten Bilbo. He straightened up, in very Baggins fashion, lifting his head high, and he spoke the name he loathed with every fiber of his being, defiance shaping every sound.

“Smaug.”

The figure let out a sharp breath as the smile curled once more. He practically purred with satisfaction, and the golden eyes gleamed brighter. Yet, somehow, having said the name, Bilbo found his fear lifted.

“How much do you remember?” he asked.

The figure tilted his head. He was surprised by the question. Judging from his smile and the lingering glint in his eye, also highly amused.

“How much time do you have?” the honey voice spoke as he began to pace. “My memories extend beyond your mortal ability of thought. Time, as I know it, is a foreign concept to you. It would take more than one of your lifetimes, were I to tell you my life in its entirety.”

“I meant your life after Lake Town.”

He stopped. Bilbo could not see his face, only stiff shoulders.

“After you emerged from the fire, and the water,” Bilbo pressed, keeping his voice soft.

The pause went on long enough, then the figure turned and his expression remained mocking. He went on walking, his hands held behind his back, and every step purposeful. He kept his eyes on the dark ground, but would glance at Bilbo expectantly, as if challenging him to keep talking.

“What about Hilda? The woman who looked after you. The journey through Mirkwood? Rivendell. What about Estel? Legolas?”

The figure gave out a long throaty laugh, while shaking his head thoughtfully.

“The window over Lord Elrond’s study,” Bilbo said, and his voice caught in is throat at the memory of something so mundane and yet so piercing. “He calls it our “perch.” You could see the land stretch out to the horizon from up there. When we first arrived, we started going there to get away from the Elves. Because you hated the way they looked at you. Afterwards, we’d just go there because it was so quiet. I’d write. You’d just—sit, and—and listen—”

“What does it matter?”

“It matters.”

“To whom? You?” he scoffed.

“You’ve led two very different lives. And three years may seem like nothing to one who has—well, lived for so long. Still, it’s important that you remember—”

“Meager fragments. No more important than maggots are to a corpse!” he interrupted while Bilbo raised his voice and said over him: “It is still important, so much is at stake—”

Till finally Bilbo’s voice won out and he concluded with a loud: “You HAVE to remember who you are!”

“I AM SMAUG!!!”

The figure roared as the dark man shape erupted into a mess of inky black substance. The cavern rattled and shook and quaked. Bilbo lost his balance and fell to the ground, shielding his eyes from the dust and pebbles shaken free from the walls over and round him. The small fire sputtered and nearly went out. The figure before him retained the body of a man, but the arms had extended into bat-like wings, though the wings themselves were tattered and torn. The eyes practically glowed. Then the fire came to life again, and Bilbo saw the figure’s shadow stretching onto the wall. It was a vast serpent with protruding wings and a long body that wrapped itself around the cavern. As the voice went on clamoring there was a terrible sound of something clattering. It sounded like heavy wood twisting under a strong wind.

“THE LAST GREAT FIRE DRAKE OF THE NORTH! I HAVE SEEN THE PASSING OF THOUSANDS OF YEARS!”

Bilbo blinked, then realized while the shadow on the walls grew and grew, the figure before him diminished. The arms had returned to normal, into two long limbs stretching out with long fingers flexing. The face remained fierce, and the eyes glinted, but it was just a man. A pale man trying to make himself greater and stronger and intimidating. But behind him, there was only a shadow.

“I’VE CRUMBLED MOUNTAINS! SHATTERED KINGDOMS! I AM THE TERROR IN THE HEARTS OF MEN! I AM THE DESTROYER!”

It seemed as if the simple act of screaming, and throwing what could be described as a supernatural tantrum, drained him. Bilbo realized that the crackling sound he had heard all the while was coming from the man’s straining body. It was his bones, cracking, stretching, shifting. The expression on his face was not one of ferocity, but of anguish.

“I AM—” he cried out once more, then slowly started bending over in pain. “I am—I am—aaargh!” before he folded all together and wrapped his long arms around himself.

“Look at you,” Bilbo shook his head, rising to his feet. His wariness was the only thing staying the fierce need to comfort his friend. “You can’t even take shape.”

While the pitiful man bent over and caught his breath, Bilbo dared step away from the safety of the fire. He instantly felt the cold as the darkness enveloped him. Still, slowly, he came closer.

“It’s because you know who you are, and who you’re not.”

The ragged breaths shifted into a dry snickering laugh. “You . . .” he started, then lifted his shaking head. The black curls shielded his eyes, framing his face, which along with his giant grin, gave him a wild look. “You still think you know me. But you don’t. Not me. And certainly not your precious Nauro.”

Bilbo stopped walking.

“Must have been so touching,” he went on, his tone bitter and sharp, “how this simpering mute latched himself to you. A giant child in desperate need of care, which you were all too willing to give. If you only knew the truth . . .” and he trailed off, his head bowed.

“Tell me then,” Bilbo broke the silence that followed.

The head came up again, and the golden eyes gleamed.

“That first night, in the camp at Dale,” he spoke, “it wasn’t curiosity that drew him to you. It was instinct.”

The body seemed to relax as he spoke, however slightly. His gaze was suddenly lost as if trying to recapture the memory of that faraway night.

“He caught your scent. Senses were strange. Everything was . . . too much.” He shut his eyes and long fingers moved in the air, caressing an unseen surface. “Every touch burned. Every sight stung the eye. Every sound knocked around, reverberating the skull. Scent was how we—” Eyes snapped open, and he quickly corrected the statement. “ ** _he_** grasped things.”

This slip of the tongue— _we_ versus _he_ — did not escape Bilbo, but the deep voice continued.

“Mired among them all and every one of their scents,” he had shut his eyes again, this time holding up is head as if catching each listing scent in the air and reacting to it. “Elves . . . dank wood.” His head moved to the left. “Dwarves . . . deep soil. Men . . .” His head tilted to the right and grimaced in disgust. “Rotting flesh.”

“Then the wind carried in something else, something foreign, something new,” the head suddenly snapped back to Bilbo and the eyes opened slowly. He was talking about him. “He tracked it. And when he found it, do you know what he thought?” Bilbo did not answer. “Catch it. Catch it . . . and _kill it_.”

Bilbo’s breath hitched, a cold fear freezing him once again.

“Do you see?” The creature had recovered. Pain still pulsed in his features, but now he was able to stand properly, straightening the long back and letting the long arms fall to his sides. The grin was malicious again, and every word was spoken with something akin to pleasure. He was enjoying Bilbo’s reaction. He went on slowly, enunciating every syllable. “He wanted to rip you to shreds from the moment he first set eyes on you.”

Bilbo swallowed hard, which pained his parched throat. He took a breath and held the cruel gaze.

“But you didn’t,” he said simply.

The man was taken aback, but he emphasized: “ ** _He_** didn’t. I was little more than a whisper in his ear. The voice in the dark, as he called it.”

“It’s not like there’s two of you,” the Hobbit corrected. “There’s always ever been one.”

“And doesn’t that just drive you mad?” he grit his teeth. Now Bilbo was sure the taunts were becoming desperate. “How you’ve shared your life with a murderer! How even now you risk your life for the sake of one who’s taken so many. Doesn’t that just disgust you?”

“No! No, of course not—”

In the blink of an eye the figure loomed dangerously near. “I could take your life now,” he said threateningly. “Believe me, he’s often wondered what sounds your bones will make under our grip!”

 _He’s wondered . . . our grip._ The creature before him was struggling with two parts of the same self, both becoming muddled in his speech. Bilbo could not let up now. He made an effort to take a step forward and stand firm.

“You wouldn’t hurt me then. I don’t believe you’d hurt me now.”

“Are you willing to bet your life on it?”

“Fine! Prove them right then!” Bilbo suddenly snapped, taking another step forwards. The figure was so surprised he moved back. “The Elves, those Rangers, they’re coming to kill you as we speak. But the others, they are waiting for us. Gandalf. Thorin. Legolas. Estel. Arwen. They’re all waiting for us to come back. But it you’re so bent on this torment that is literally destroying your body, then do it! Kill me! Prove me wrong.”

The man was silent for a moment, his face unreadable.

“Fine words,” he said softly. “But you do not want to die.”

“Neither do you.”

The silence went on, and a strange battle of will seemed to ensue. But it did not last. The man was the first to turn his back, moving further into the vastness of the cave.

“Go.”

Bilbo was not expecting that.

“Tell them I’ll be here, bated breath, awaiting their bold charge,” the man said, his mocking tone restored. “See how many survive it. And to the others . . .”

The figure had stopped walking, and the shoulders seemed to tense again. The mocking tone faded and instead betrayed despair. “Tell them there’s nothing to wait for.”

This struck Bilbo’s heart. Instead of pity, however, he felt hope. There was sadness in that last statement, and no mistake.

“Answer me this,” Bilbo stepped closer. “What is the Arkenstone to you?”

The man’s head turned slightly, though his face remained shrouded in shadows.

“I’d know that cursed stone anywhere,” Bilbo pressed. “Long it burned a hole in my pocket, and my conscience. Those specters, one of them was holding it. I could tell it had some kind of effect on you. Why? What is it to you?”

“I told you to go,” the man waved his hand dismissively and kept walking away. Bilbo followed after him.

“Does it have some kind of sway over you? Is the Witch King using it to control you?”

“You try my patience, Halfling. Take your life and leave it with it, while my mercy lasts.”

“Smaug the merciful? Is that a new title? It does have a rather nice ring to it.”

Perhaps that last one was a bit not good. Our mister Baggins had not learned his lesson properly. Never laugh at a live dragon!

Bilbo had tested his luck. And it had run out. No sooner had he tried to be clever with that last remark, he was on his back, the man bent over him and two pale long chilled hands around his neck. The pale face over him was feral, animalistic. But while Bilbo gasped for breath and tried to pry the bony fingers off, he looked deep into eyes that were no longer gold. Sadly, they were not the storm grey he once knew either. They were black.

The grip eased off slowly, just as the beastly features softened into a cold glare. Bilbo coughed and wheezed, his lungs overly eager for air. Once he was free, he scrambled away, his hands protecting his neck. The figure remained at his level, hunched over the ground. His face betrayed a deep sadness, but also a terrible threat.

It was the closest he resembled Nauro.

“We were friends once,” he said, his voice now heavy with grief. “That is the only reason you are still breathing.”

Bilbo waited for the creature that looked like his friend to continue. “The transformation took its toll on my mind. I did require . . . _aid_ ,” he emphasized the final word with hesitation, then went on. “Which you provided.”

At this he suddenly gripped one of Bilbo’s feet and yanked him closer until he was under him again. A claw-like hand hovered over his face, and the voice deepened threateningly.

“Think of this as a debt between us which is settled. Now . . . GO!”

He practically tossed the Hobbit to the other side of the cavern, and when Bilbo recovered and gathered to his feet, he was alone.

The parting word “GO!” lingered, echoing ominously from the high walls of the cavern.

 

 


	50. Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Estel's growing interest in the Dunédain Rangers forces Lord Elrond to bring a long held secret to light.

 

Chapter 50: Hope

 

“You deceived us!”

“I did no such thing.”

“Do you even realize what you’ve done!”

“You dare speak to our King in this manner!”

Elrond and Gandalf practically ran to the raised voices, a rather large party of Elves—including Arwen and Tauriel— comedically following after them. What they found was a hectic scene, involving the Rangers in a shouting match with the Dwarves while Estel and Legolas were caught in the middle trying to placate things.

“Captain Halbarad,” Elrond raised his voice, and Man and Dwarf alike seemed to be cowed, like children being scolded. Gandalf couldn’t help but smirk. “Surely there is no need for such behavior. What is the meaning of this outrage?”

Halbarad composed himself. “These Dwarves helped the Halfling. No doubt he’s on his way to warn the Dragon of our plans.”

“Interesting,” Fili suddenly stepped in. “You insist he wasn’t your prisoner and yet these accusations certainly sound like it—”

“Their _king_ here,” Halbarad went on, pointing accusingly at Thorin, “deceived us and returned whatever trinket the Halfling had in order for him to escape.”

“There was no deception,” Thorin said, rather calmly.

“We were informed the Dwarves were returning to Erebor,” Halbarad countered.

“But of course,” the Dwarf king shrugged. “It is our home. It’s only natural we should return there, once our task here is done.”

Thorin’s stoic response was received with amusement. Halbarad’s accusing rage was suddenly curtailed, and he snickered. Gandalf laughed under his breath, while Elrond’s eyebrow shot up, unimpressed.

“I was led to believe,” Halbarad went on with a calmer tone, but accusing nonetheless, “you wished to bid your friend goodbye because your departure was imminent. It is the only reason I allowed it.”

Thorin shrugged again, and spoke as if what he was saying was the most obvious thing in the world. “I merely felt compelled to inform you we intended to return to Erebor, but I did not specify a departure date. I am sorry if you were . . . misled.”

Halbarad laughed openly at this and shook his head. The other Rangers eased their stance, but the Dwarves remained wary. Both Elrond and Gandalf, however, relaxed at this.

“Hobbits really are fascinating creatures, if they can elicit such loyalty from so many,” the Ranger spoke, glancing at the proud Thorin, at the eager Dwarves, at the concerned Estel and Legolas, and at the elderly Elrond and Gandalf. “But I will not be as impressed by this mister Baggins if he’s waltzed into a dragon’s den only to be burnt to a crisp.”

“You do not seem to understand,” Estel spoke, “that dragon is our friend. And if there is any hope of saving him, then it is in Bilbo’s hands. You must trust us on this.”

The Ranger did not look convinced, but he had become quite taken with the youth, and it was enough to further ease his stance.

“Captain Halbarad,” Lord Elrond stepped forward. “Whatever comes of our mister Baggins’ actions this night, I will take full responsibility. Now, I would suggest you allow your men to take their rest. We will all be needing it, and we may not find it again so easily.”

Halbarad nodded, and with the traditional bowing of the head to show respect, he made to take his leave. Before he left, however, he turned to Estel and did the same gesture. The boy was confused as he watched the men retreat to their side of the camp.

“That was meant for you, right?” he asked Legolas, but the Elf prince seemed just as surprised.

“King Thorin, you very nearly lost us our only allies in this fight,” Elrond said, his amused smile making his true thoughts unreadable.

“It was not my intent, lord Elrond,” Thorin answered. Then his gaze lingered on the retreating figures and he became pensive. “When we were captured by the slavers, in the Lower Valley, I heard them speak of Rangers with fear. Such allies are needed in these times.”

“Bilbo is gone then,” Legolas confirmed. Gandalf’s gaze became very grim.

“Estel said it himself,” he said, though his tone betrayed hesitation. “If anyone can reach Nauro now, it is him. We must trust now in their friendship.”

“Do not think ill of the Rangers, or my son,” Elrond said. “This is no easy situation. They merely did what they judged to be right. But perhaps in this case, we must rely on hope rather than strength. While Mr. Baggins faces his task, we must face our own.”

All eyes then turned to the ominous tower in the distance.

 

Rest was indeed hard to find in the coming days, which stretched into painful exhaustion. They had to keep moving during the day and be ready for onslaughts of orcs at night. Tauriel’s hawk was late in returning, and already hearts were heavy with fear that no help would reach them.

Battles were not measured by victory or defeat, but by their losses. And for the most part, the orcs’ numbers suffered. But the leaders in the company knew that it was only a matter of time before exhaustion weakened their warriors.

There was a night when the Rangers went on ahead of the company, to scout out a particular brutal stretch of land. Estel had gone with them, for he had spent quite some time in their midst. They did not return until three agonizing days later.

They had been ambushed. Fortune had been with them and they suffered no casualties, but their injured were many. Halbarad himself was almost cut down, but was saved by Estel. In the three days it took them to return safely to the company, the Rangers had looked to the youth for leadership. The boy had hardly noticed the shift in command until several keen eyes were upon him. There was scarcely time to argue, and he led them back, alive and whole.

He gained quite a bit of respect from this, from Elf, Man and Dwarf alike. But Estel did not care for such attention.

After this, Halbarad often spoke with him, offering a place among their ranks. The youth was torn because he was hesitant to answer.

“You speak as one of them,” Halbarad said, his eyes looking to the Elves, “but you are no Elf. Perhaps it is time you returned to the world of Men.”

“I’ve never deceived myself,” Estel answered. “I know what I’m not. Still, the world of Men holds nothing for me. I do not know my own people, or from what House I hail from. My mother brought me to Rivendell when I was but a babe in her arms. She never told me about her life before, or even my father’s name.”

The Ranger looked pensive. “The blood of Númenor runs in your veins. Of that I have no doubt. And there is great power waiting to be revealed.”

Estel scoffed at this. “I do not desire power. Indeed I would have been happy to live out my years in Rivendell, with my love and my family. But now that I have seen the state of the world . . .” At this, he looked out behind them, to the open gates of Angmar and the unseen path he had traversed in the past months. “Farms destroyed. Families slaughtered. People unprotected, borders unguarded. I’ve very nearly lost my friends, and my own life, just a few miles away from Rivendell. The danger was far closer to home than I ever dreamt.”

“We have abandoned our homes for the sake of protecting others,” Halbarad answered. “That is our sacrifice. And it is our intent to guard borders, and protect those families. The Elves, and those same farmers and families, they all like to believe the Wars are done. But our War goes on every day. A War that needs soldiers.”

Estel could not deny, his heart stirred at the thought.

 

He went to Elrond that very evening, to speak to him of his doubts. His surrogate father looked far more shaken by this than he had expected.

“And here I feared you intended to speak to me about your intentions with my daughter.”

Estel shifted uncomfortably. “Well . . . not today at least,” he said, in a weak humorous attempt. The eyebrows leapt upwards at him, but the Elf lord remained silent and his brow suddenly furrowed with concern.

“What do you think I should do?” Estel said, seriously this time. “You are my father in all ways but blood. As always, I look to you for guidance. If you tell me to return with you to Imladris, I will respect your wishes—”

“That decision is not mine to make,” Elrond said, his voice very heavy. Estel was startled by it.

“Your mother told me to wait for the right time. Now I fear I have waited too long.”

Elrond did not often speak of those who had passed. Estel became very eager to hear of his mother.

“The right time for what?”

“The truth,” aged eyes pierced Estel’s very being, “about who you are.”

Estel was silent, suddenly afraid that this moment would pass like the wisp of a dream. He sat near his father and waited.

 

“When you first came to Rivendell, your mother feared for your life. It was important that your identity never be discovered. So it fell to me to give you a new name.” When Elrond spoke of this, his voice took on something akin to fondness, remembering the infant and the time between. “I named you _Estel_ , which in our tongue means _“hope.”_ For that was what you represented to your mother, and to your people. But you were given a different name at birth.”

He stopped, knowing the following words would forever change their relationship.

“Your father’s name was Arathorn, son of Arador.”

The name sent a shudder down Estel’s spine. There was something in it that stirred his very blood. And there was something familiar about it too, but his mind was too preoccupied to remember.

“He was a good man.”

Those names— both of them—where had he heard them?

“If you remember your history, those names should bear some meaning. You are not the first of your bloodline to live in Rivendell. After the Northern kingdom fell, your family took shelter with the Elves. Your father, and his father before him, were educated in my House. It was a long lineage, kept in secret for their own protection. One that hailed from the Dunédain.”

Estel froze at this. A lineage from the Northern Kingdom, of the Dunédain, worthy of the High Elves’ protection . . .

“But then—” Estel started, his voice tightening, “you—you’re saying my father was—”

“The heir to the throne of Gondor,” Elrond said, his grim voice shifting to one of pride.

But Estel felt no pride. Only shock.

He couldn’t have heard right.

“But your father is gone,” the Elf lord went on, “which makes you the heir. Isildur’s heir.”

The youth leapt to his feet, his hands rubbing desperately at his eyes and his breathing becoming erratic. The quickening of his heart was almost deafening.

“It is your fate to take up the empty throne of the City of Kings and rule the last great kingdom of Men. Lead them out of the darkness—”

“Stop,” he let out in a breathless whisper. “I-I need to think.”

But he couldn’t think. Questions flooded his mind, each one striking at him like waves in a storm. Still he couldn’t grasp a single one. Elrond watched him sternly. There was no compassion, no apology for keeping this all from him. There was only the same demanding expectation he always held for the boy, except it was now heightened to an impossible degree.

At that moment, Estel could not bring himself to meet his gaze.

“Your true name,” the Elf went on, mercilessly, “is Aragorn.”

 

Legolas searched for quite some time. Arwen had come to him in tears. Estel had fled from her, angered at the truth. Of course she had known his true name, for she had known his fathers before. She had kept the secret— for her father, out of fear, out of love, she could not say. But she could not assuage Estel’s wrath.

“I don’t want him alone,” she had said to him.

Legolas searched throughout the camp, and beyond. He eventually found him some ways off, perched atop a smaller cliff. The barren lands stretched beneath him, and the palling sun was setting. It would soon plummet them into the orc’s domain again. The youth was cowed, his head bowed in his arms.

He looked lost.

Legolas realized he had no idea what to say.

“Did you know?”

The boy suddenly straightened up, looking out to the land before him.

“No,” Legolas answered. “Lady Arwen just told—”

“Are you lying to me?” Estel turned. There were tears in his eyes, but no grief. Only rage and helplessness. He leapt to his feet and charged towards his friend, and word was spoken piercingly and demanding. “You were always so cryptic about your reasons. Why did you come to Rivendell? Did you know?!”

“I knew you were destined for greatness,” Legolas held up his arms in a placating gesture. “But I did not know in what capacity. I knew you had it in you to change the world—”

“I don’t want to change the world!” Estel shouted, throwing out his arms. “I don’t want to lead! To rule!” He turned back to the greying sky, the dead land beneath it, and shouted at it: “I DON’T WANT ANY OF THIS!”

Legolas let him.

Estel caught his breath, trying to calm himself. The Elf prince approached and lay a calming hand on his shoulder. Estel tore away from him.

“A King?! How can I be king?! I am no king! I am nothing! I— “Lead them out of darkness,” he said. How can I lead anyone?!” He drew breath, his eyes looking helplessly all around him.

“Isildur kept the One ring when he could have destroyed it!” he went on, passionately. “He doomed Middle Earth to repeat history, merely staying its destruction for a time. He was weak! All Men are weak!”

“You don’t believe that.”

“There is no strength in the world of Men!”

“Those are Elrond’s words,” Legolas stated firmly. “Not yours.”

Estel looked like he was about to go on, screaming and shouting. But no words came out, only more tears.

“Even he does not believe it, not really,” Legolas said. “Why else would he serve the House of Elendil, by guarding its descendants? He has hope in the fate of Men. And that hope is now you.”

His young friend looked ready to throw a punch. Instead, he suddenly fell to the ground and hid his face in his hands. His long tousled hair fell about his shoulders, further shielding his grief, shock, rage and fear. A soft small voice slipped past, and it struck at Legolas’ heart.

“I don’t want this.”

He knelt before him and placed his hand on his shoulder. Estel remained hunched over, but he leaned into his friend and let his head rest against his chest.

There they stayed, until the sun faded and night fell.

 

The camp was bustling, readying itself for the coming night and whatever fight awaited them. For the old wizard, however, a very different battle was about to ensue.

He stole away into the night, far from the camp, and sequestered himself in a hidden crevice. After laying a number of protective spells, meant to shield him from enemy eyes, he took out a wrapped bundle from his satchel.

Slowly, he uncovered a black sphere. Black as the night. A Palantir.

He had found it in Dol Guldur. Once the Necromancer had been vanished, Gandalf returned to the abandoned fortress and retrieved it. Not all of the lost seeing stones had been accounted for, and no doubt this was how Sauron had communicated with his followers while his spirit cowered.

It was far too risky to use the seeing stones of old, especially one that had been used for such dark deeds. But this was worth the risk.

Steeling himself, he chanted the incantation under his breath and placed a determined hand upon the stone’s surface.

Then the world shifted around him.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Admittedly I don't remember as much of The Silmarillion and Aragorn's history (I read it more than ten years ago!) so that is still kept a little vague (sorry about that). What I do remember is being very moved at the thought that Aragorn was very shaken when Elrond first told him about his family and what this meant for his future. I also remember a lot of passages that seemed to hint that he had no desire to become King, so I wanted to explore what motivations would lead him to become the King we get to see in ROTK. 
> 
> Also, heads up, gonna take some Palantir liberties in the next chapter, so puritans . . . forgive me!


	51. The Mind's Eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gandalf uses the Palantir to reach Nauro, and finds him lost in his own mind.

 

Chapter 51: The Mind’s Eye

 

Somewhere, in the blackest of black, Nauro sat. His slow steady breathing his only companion. The Voice was quiet. It was only his own voice, chanting the same thing over and over again:

_He’s gone. He’s safe._

It was difficult keeping his thoughts from straying to fire and devastation. To death and pain. So he clung to the dark, to this silence and blankness. He once thought all he needed to do was stay in the light, to keep the dark from taking over. But now the light was gone.

_. . . safe . . ._

“Bit dark, isn’t it?”

Nauro’s eyes shot open and he swung round. It was the wizard, standing with a sad smile, his hands clasped before him. There was a white hue about him, which is how Nauro could see him out of the dark.

“What are you doing here?!”

“Rather bleak too. Couldn’t we have some light?”

Nauro leapt to his feet, then realized something. They weren’t in the caverns beneath Angmar’s stronghold. There were no senses, no sounds, no textures.

“You’re not really here,” he said, more to himself.

“Neither are you,” Gandalf shrugged, his smile looking almost impish.

Nauro wasn’t cold. He felt nothing around him. More importantly, the pain in his bones and skin was gone. The Voice was mute. There was no change, or even the threat of change.

Here, the dragon didn’t exist.

“Where are we then?” he asked.

“You tell me.”

He felt more aware than he had in . . . days? Months? They weren’t anywhere. They were in a space, where thoughts go to be forgotten.

_. . . my mind?_

Looking at the old wizard reminded him of simpler times. Times of peace and plenty. The darkness dispersed, and in its place was Rivendell; the window overlooking the realm, and the lands before it. Soothing warm sunlight streamed in past leaves overhead, dancing lighting in a cool breeze. They made a soporific sound, like gentle waves upon the sand. Every now and then, a bird would sing, and Elven voices could be heard far off.

“Ah, your secret hiding place,” Gandalf said, fondness in his voice. He took a seat near the window.

“Not much of a hiding place if you knew of it,” Nauro said, unable to look away from the vision of the horizon. It looked and felt so real.

“Is this your haven then?”

Nauro turned. The wizard too seemed far too real.

“How are you here?”

“With a little help from an ancient power. But I don’t wish to bore you with it. Besides, I do not know how much time I have. It is taking its toll on me.”

“You seem fine.”

“It’s your mind. I am as you remember me, after all. And a very good memory it is too.”

For a moment, Nauro felt nostalgia at the wizard’s joking tone. There was a moment of silence. Nauro sat himself on the window perch. While he was aware that Gandalf was staring at him expectantly, he basked in the feel of sunlight on his skin.

“I do miss this place,” he said softly. “So quiet. So . . . beautiful.”

At this, Gandalf leaned forward. His gaze became questioning, and he could not hide the anxiety in his fidgeting fingers. “Bilbo went looking for you.”

Nauro nodded. “He was here.”

“Was? Is he alive?” fear tightened the old man’s voice.

“He was when he left.”

He heard a released sigh of relief, and he could feel the wizard’s entire pose relax.

“Nauro.”

“You know that is not my name,” he turned suddenly.

“It’s the name I gave you,” Gandalf retorted, “and it’s a good one— if I do say so myself.”

He had no answer to that. He looked to the horizon again, turning his back on Gandalf.

“I need to know,” the wizard said sternly.

“Know what?” Nauro bit back.

“About you. The transformation. The Arkenstone. What is happening to you now.”

“What is there to know?” he stood, and shouted. “I am Smaug! The wretch you knew is dead! N—no, not dead, because he never existed!”

Gandalf was not fazed by this outburst. Instead, he straightened where he sat and looked at Nauro with feigned interest. He looked like an indulgent father, about to teach his child a lesson.

“Curious,” he began, “I see that very “wretch” you speak of before me. And yet, when last we met, you were a fire breathing dragon, who miraculously managed to kill only orcs and no actual enemies.”

Nauro felt annoyed, but hesitant. “The dragon is not here,” he said softly.

“Indeed,” Gandalf crossed his arms and leisurely leaned back against a wall covered with vines. “And to whom am I speaking now? The man Nauro or the dragon Smaug?”

There was a pause.

“Bilbo said there aren’t two of us. There’s only ever been one.”

“And what do you think?” Gandalf seemed genuinely curious about this.

“I don’t know!” Nauro cried out, burying his face in his hands.

“Well then,” the old man stood and walked over to the window. “Let’s see if I can be of some assistance.”

And he sat on the window, across from Nauro. His face was unreadable, but the pale man could not help but feel familiarity in those aged eyes.

 

“Tell me about Erebor,” Gandalf said in an encouraging tone. “You had destroyed the kingdom, tormented and ate its people, claimed its vast wealth as your very expensive bed. Many years passed, you were lord and master of the mountain. Then there was silence. What happened then?”

For a moment, the wizard thought he would get no answer. The pale features were grim and unmoving, his gaze lost on the horizon. But then he realized, patience was needed.

Nauro was . . . searching his memories.

“Long I slept,” he started, hesitatingly. “I was tired . . . so tired.” Gandalf believed him at this, for Nauro suddenly bent over and buried his face further into his hands. It was perhaps only then that Gandalf tried to imagine the weight of all those years on the man’s mind. Many times, he too felt weary of his long years, and the years that were to come. He found himself sympathizing with an aged dragon!

He was so lost in his own thoughts that he did not realize Rivendell had disappeared. The sun went out. The free cool breeze clamped into dank thick air. They were now seated on cold unforgiving stairs, hewn from harsh rock. He looked about. It was Erebor. The mountain of wealth stretched out before him, and a giant red dragon slept.

“All I wanted to do was sleep,” Nauro went on, his head still bowed. “And I did. I could feel time passing around me. Rocks crumbling, rust devouring metal, bones becoming dust. It wasn’t the Dwarves that awoke me. Someone else came first.”

While Gandalf was watching the sleeping dragon in the memory, something caught his eye. A shadow moved on the walls. A presence he had come to know far too well.

“Sauron . . .” he breathed, his fears confirmed.

Nauro too was watching the memory. Watching how the giant beast lifted its lazy head and conferred long with the spectral figure.

“He called it an exchange of gifts.”

“What did you give him?” Gandalf asked eagerly.

“My loyalty,” Nauro turned to Gandalf’s face. Despite being wrapped in the darkness of Erebor, he was in control of the memory, and a small torch burned next to them. “His armies could make use of the mountain. A strategic point to secure his hold over the East. And when he would call on me, I would answer.”

Gandalf was intrigued. Smaug never answered to a master, so whatever was offered was something he would not refuse.

“And what did he give you?”

“The Fire Drakes were endowed with Sight. Sight beyond. For many years, when I slept, I Saw a lone archer, standing atop a sea of flames, firing a black arrow. I knew my death was . . .” he bit his lip in an uncharacteristically human gesture, “unavoidable. He knew as well. Somehow, he too had seen this path.”

“What did he offer you?” the wizard pressed.

“An alternative.”

The giant dragon and the shadowed figure suddenly faded into wisps of smoke. They were no longer on the high steps, but instead in the midst of the vast treasure. Gandalf felt jewels and coins beneath him. Nauro suddenly stood, but he did not stumble with the shifting objects under his feet. He seemed to glide over them as he went on with his tale. It was a tale Gandalf knew well enough, but he allowed his friend to continue.

“He spoke to me of Eregion, and how in his Elven guise, he gained the trust of the Elves of the Second Age. And Men and Dwarves followed suit. He convinced them to unite the free people of Middle Earth with the creation of Rings of Power. He watched their craftsmanship, their power, and crafted his own. Into this ring, he bound his life. Should his body be destroyed, his life force would be preserved.”

“He taught you this craft?” Gandalf asked.

Nauro turned to him, a strange mocking smile on his features. His hand rested over the left side of his chest. “The black arrow meets its mark, the loosened scale under the left wing, but Smaug lives on!”

“But what did you bind your life to?”

“It had to be something at hand,” the pale man held out his arms, looking out to the vast wealth around them. “I had quite a collection to choose from. But in the end, there was only ever really one that would do.”

Realization dawned on Gandalf, as the mocking smile grew wider.

“The Arkenstone,” he gasped. “You bound your life force to the stone.”

“A final insult to the house of Durin,” Nauro spoke in a voice not his own, and he laughed at this. A deep rumbling laugh that echoed off of the high walls. Coins even shifted from their place with the vibrations. “If the mountain should ever be reclaimed, that alone would be prized by the Dwarves.”

He went on with his arms held out, as if asking to be praised for his genius. “Protected. Preserved. I would live on, guarded by the very people I destroyed . . . and would inevitably destroy again. Meanwhile I would thrive elsewhere, in a lesser form. Waiting, biding my time.”

“Dragons do not have that ability!” Gandalf could not stay his anger at this. The mocking tone and almost manic expression on the man’s face was too much.

“It was part of my gift. He linked my life force, my very essence to the stone. And then he gave me the ability to shift. The form was meant to be Elvish. I would be hailed by Men, and the Elves would welcome me as one of their own. I would learn, gather my strength, then recover what was mine and take on my true form with renewed strength.”

As he had gone on, Nauro assumed various poses of elegance and grace. He truly looked like a majestic Elven princeling, worthy of loyalty and awe and love. Then Gandalf blinked, and the poise was gone. Nauro’s arms hung limply at his sides and the confident expression faded.

“But . . . something happened. During the transformation. The incantation was—” at this he touched his head, as if trying to pull cobwebs from his eyes. “My thoughts were confused. Crazed. I could not think—”

Gandalf’s anger was stayed, replaced by understanding. He could not stop a smile from his new realization.

“Fear,” he said, rising to his feet, to stand on equal ground. “Despite knowing your fate, having prepared a security plan, in the face of death and pain, you were afraid. A very mortal emotion. One you had never experienced, in all your long years. Your new physical form was affected then, becoming incomplete. More Man than Elf. Your memories . . .”

“Gone. Completely,” Nauro added. “I shut it all out, clearing my mind to escape the pain. It’s an old trick. It’s how we managed to sleep, for years at a time. But to have done it at the moment of the transformation was . . . foolish.”

“Nothingness. You were literally born anew.”

The scene shifted again.

It was biting cold, but at least the air was clear and clean. Gandalf recognized it as the shores of Long Lake, at dawn. He looked to where the ruins of Lake Town should have been. But there was nothing. Just a vast empty lake with mist and fog hovering over calm waters. Nauro was not bothered by the cold. He was looking at his hands, as if he was seeing them for the first time.

“The body was different. The mind empty. But beneath it all, it was still the same death-craving creature. The instincts to destroy never left.”

Gandalf turned at this, his tone challenging.

“Tell me what happened, when you emerged from the waters of Long Lake.”

“You know it already,” Nauro dropped his hands and looked Gandalf in the eye. “Did you not think I noticed how you questioned every man and woman I came in contact with in Dale? You often spoke to—”

His words died. His lips tightened. Gandalf smiled at this.

“To . . . who? Tell me her name,” he insisted. “The woman who looked after you.” Nauro did not look away, but he would not speak.

“Hilda,” Gandalf offered. “Her name was Hilda. And yes, I learned much from her. Now I want to hear from you. What happened the first day of your new life?”

“Nothing,” Nauro shrugged and turned away to the calm waters of the lake. “I didn’t understand what was happening, I hardly even knew how to move. I didn’t know anything. All I could do was follow her around—”

“And what happened when you were following her around?”

“I had no will of my own. It was all I could do!” he snapped impatiently. He started to weary of these questions.

“But you did have your will. Think! What was the first thing you did of your own volition?” Gandalf placed an urgent hand on his shoulder. “Your first decision? The first time you took action?”

Silent figures started appearing on the grey shores. They spoke no audible words, but Gandalf saw their mouths moving in agitation. Among them, Gandalf could see Hilda, walking briskly, her arms full of blankets. She was handing them out to the poor souls. The odious figure of Alfrid appeared out of thin air and started harassing her.

“She was attacked,” Nauro said, watching the memory play before him.

“And what did you do?” Gandalf’s eyes strayed to the pensive features.

The scene played out. Alfrid’s arm was raised in anger but was suddenly frozen by an invisible force. Nauro’s own shape appeared, gripping the arm and snarling at the hideous character.

“You protected her.”

Nauro stared for a moment longer at the figure of Hilda. In her face, there was a mixture of surprise, gratitude and even a hint of pleasure at the sight. Something stirred in him, a strange form of . . . yearning?

“Why was that so shocking!” he demanded angrily and with an angry wave of his arms, the figures vanished. The shores were empty again, and he riled on Gandalf. “I protected what was mine! I always protected my hoard!”

“Things. Property. Dominion. Pride. This was a living being,” the wizard pointed at the empty shores where the figures once stood. “Not just any being, a human. A human woman who showed you kindness. A meaningless creature Smaug would have destroyed without a second thought. Who showed what Smaug would have considered weakness. And yet, there you were. A dragon protecting a human woman, responding to that kindness.”

Nauro’s fists tightened. “Responding with violence, nonetheless,” he countered stubbornly.

“What about Bilbo?”

The scene shifted. They were in Dale, at night. The wind was still biting cold. The ruined houses surrounded them. A small figure of smoke made his way here and there. As it drew closer to them, the smoke took on Bilbo’s shape.

“I caught his scent. It made me curious. When I saw him, I started to remember things. Only it wasn’t because of him.” Nauro turned again to Gandalf. “It was the Arkenstone he carried. It was calling me. Trying to draw me in. I was going after _it_.”

Gandalf nodded. That did make sense. Nauro often said Bilbo reminded him of something. But if the Hobbit had Smaug’s very life force in his hands, it meant it had been the stone calling to him. However . . .

“You did not pursue it,” he argued. “Bilbo parted with the Arkenstone that night. It remained in King Thranduil’s keep. But you followed Bilbo instead, and again, when he was in danger—”

The smoke figure of Bilbo took on a more detailed appearance. He was hiding behind every rock, and checking his precious burden. The illusion of the Arkenstone gleamed bright, despite being wrapped in rags. There was a fleeting image of the ghastly Alfrid hovering over Bilbo, though it faded quickly and the image of Bilbo disappeared into the night.

“I could have killed that man,” Nauro said in a cold voice. “Yet you make it sound so heroic—”

“Your need to protect outweighed your instinct to destroy.”

Nauro met Gandalf’s eyes, and the scene vanished.

They were back in the dark.

There were no memories, no sounds, or wispy figures and shapes. It was just them.

Gandalf smiled at his friend, and he lay a gentle comforting hand on his shoulder.

“For three years, you silenced the voices from your past, those which sought to lure you back to your hatefulness,” the wizard spoke softly. “Now, for some reason, you insist on silencing yourself. You’ve banished your better side to this darkness, to the farthest recesses of your tormented mind.”

However slightly, Gandalf felt the darkness around them lighten. They were able to see each other’s faces, clearly.

“You are stronger than him, Nauro,” the wizard stated, and the hand squeezed his shoulder.

“Come back,” his sonorous voice surrounded them.

Then, like a dream, the wizard started to fade. On impulse, Nauro reached out to grasp at his friend. But his hands closed about air. Cold thin air. Despite being alone in the dark, the wizard’s voice still reached him, as if he was still there.

_“Come back to the light.”_

 

“Mithrandir!”

Gandalf drew breath, as if a man drowning. He was very tired, every ounce of strength drained. Every part of him cold. His vision was darkened, but he felt a hand resting upon his heart. Another settled on his head, and fair voices lifted him from his daze.

When he recovered his sight, it was to the Lady Galadriel’s fair face. She smiled down at him, cradled as he was in her arms. Next to them was lord Elrond, shaking his head as he wrapped the Palantir under several layers of cloth.

“This was far too dangerous, Gandalf,” he said. “We do not know who else might be watching.”

“My lady . . .” the elderly wizard breathed.

“You were far, Mithrandir,” Galadriel spoke. “Did you find who you sought?”

“He is lost. It’s dark where he is.” Grief flooded his eyes, but both Elven figures also saw the glimmer of hope lingering.

“What of Bilbo?” Elrond asked.

“Bilbo wasn’t there. But I think—” the glimmer of hope became stronger as he lifted himself from the ground. “If I know our mister Baggins, then I know what we must do.”

 

The greater army, increased in number of Elves with the Lórien guard, and just as strengthened by the Dunédain and Dwarrow warriors, marched towards Angmar’s fortress. Once there, the army spread out before the spiked towers, and the Lady of Light called out to the spectral king. She defied his rule and demanded he face judgment for his crimes.

An army of orcs poured out of the fortress, yet held back their attack. They parted, like a crimson wave, and a fell beast walked amongst them. The Witch King rode on its back, proud and terrible. His spiked rusted crown rested on an unseen head, the armor creaked with every shift, and a heavy sword waited impatiently in his skeletal grip.

Some of the Men and the Dwarves quailed under the unseen eyes, fear flooding their veins. Members of the Fair Folk would not deny they too felt fear. Such was the power of the darkness that fueled such a being.

But the Lady of Light stood tall. She held aloft a vial of clear water, and silver light shimmered from it.

It was the Witch King’s turn to quake.

The battle went on while the sun faded and the moon rose. With the Witch King weakened by such light, victory seemed at hand. However, it was short lived.

The Witch King’s gaze was suddenly drawn back to his fortress and he let out a terrible shriek.

He fled from the light, but not because he was defeated. It was because he was called back to his high tower.

But he was too late.

The altar on which he had set his prized stone, the heart of the Dragon, was tipped over. The stone was nowhere in sight.

Once his fierce spectral gaze studied ever corner of his chamber, they fell upon another valued possession. The heavy chest that contained the recovered Dwarf Rings . . .

It was empty.

A shriek of utter rage pierced the night sky.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone found the shifts confusing, Nauro is technically the human side of himself lost in his mind. Gandalf used the Palantir to basically enter his mind. This is why they can both see the memories and Nauro can control them.
> 
> I may be watching too much Star Trek; Next Generation, they have a bunch of episodes where stuff like this happens :P


	52. The Battle for Angmar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Battle for Angmar has begun, and a new player enters the fray.   
> But whose side is he on?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: Imma just gonna leave this right here.   
> (leaves Cliffhanger on table then proceeds to run out of the room)

 

Chapter 52: The Battle for Angmar

 

Even without their leader, the orcs were relentless and the battle raged on. It was swiftly interrupted by the shrieking Witch King as his fell beast swooped down upon the armies. Warriors of all races fled before it, but few escaped being bowled over by merciless talons or knocked off their feet by the sheer force of its wings. Once it was on the ground, its rider leapt off and marched on the battlefield.

All fled, an aura of fear and terror emanating from him. Despite enemies being in his path, the spectral figure seemed intent on his path. He continued to advance, his entire form fixed upon . . . nothing.

When Thorin noticed this, he feared the worst.

 

Bilbo had hoped, with the help of the ring, he would blend into the chaos of the fight and find his friends. Sneaking out of the fortress had been easy enough, with every known guard distracted by the battle. But that shriek had resounded in every fiber of his being, piercing his very ears. In fact, there were thin streams of blood pouring out of them. He knew his crime scene had been discovered.

Despite being invisible, he feared the Arkenstone’s glimmering light would give him away. He tried to shake off such irrational thoughts and instead focused on dodging blades, falling heavy bodies and trampling hooves and paws. The flying creature appeared in the sky and flew down towards him, like a hawk swooping down on a mouse. He had narrowly avoided its claws, but then the Witch King appeared in his sight.

In the hazy world of the ring, the robed figure looked entirely different. He appeared human, like one of the High Kings of old he’d seen portrayed in Lord Elrond’s books and scrolls. Though what should have been regal robes were tattered and worn. The crown over his thinning hair was rusted and spiked. The face was pallid, the skin stretched to the point of looking almost like a skull. There were no discernable eyes.

One white ghostly hand gripped a thick spiked sword, while another hand with long skeletal fingers and long rotting nails reached out towards him. Not just reaching out. He was advancing towards him, chasing after Bilbo’s fleeing path. And the closer he got, the more Bilbo realized . . .

_He can see me!_

There was nowhere to run. He removed the ring, and the world instantly leapt back into existence. Time picked up speed, and the phantasm King was once again a robed hooded figure. And it was but a few feet away from him. Bilbo continued to back away, until he tripped and fell over. In his panic, it was impossible to get back up. It wasn’t long before the warring soldiers around them parted and the Witch King was on him.

Something was different.

Something didn’t feel right.

It took the terrified Hobbit a moment too long to realize the Witch King’s thick spiked sword was protruding from his side. He was in so much shock, he couldn’t even scream. The pain was instant and unlike any he’d ever felt. He actually believed his heart would stop. Consciousness was seeping away from him.

The figure leaned in closer, and Bilbo thought the darkness under the hood was the void, calling him. He very nearly answered.

 

The spectral creature started twisting the blade, slowly, basking in the look of agony in the pitiful underling’s face. The light was leaving the frightened eyes. Life was already leaving the obstinate little body. He almost wished the fun didn’t have to end so soon.

Just then, it smiled. The impudent offensive wretch of a mortal was smiling.

“Do you not know death when you see it, halfling?” the specter demanded, twisting the blade an inch further.

The weak smile only grew wider and more defiant. The eyes showed no more terror. The dying light in them seemed to be renewed. It only made the Witch King want to destroy it.

“Why do you smile!?”

The dark blue eyes opened wider and looked past the Witch King. They were fixed upon the night sky above them. A voice, just as defiant, answered.

“The dragon is coming.”

 

Enemy and foe alike fled. The armies stopped their fighting and scattered. The land was suddenly cleared as the great Fire Drake descended heavily. The very earth shook.

Gandalf looked now upon Smaug as he always was. He was in his full size, at his full strength. He let out a great and powerful roar that sent even the fiercest warrior into a panic.

Legolas, Estel and Thorin flanked him, while the rest of their army stretched out behind them. Meanwhile, the wizard straightened up and watched the nightmarish scene before him.

Smaug stood, his neck stretched out to the sky, with his legs parted wide in a crouch and his wings spread out. His tail coiled and twisted. His mouth snarled and golden eyes gleamed at a lesser being.

This being was the Witch King’s beast. It snarled and gnashed its teeth at the great dragon, roaring gutturally. Some feet away from it was its rider. From his pose, he was as uncertain as his creature as to the Dragon’s next move. In the middle of it all, was a very small shape, stumbling weakly to his feet.

Silence fell heavily.

The orc army shifted impatiently, eager for their new pet to wreak havoc upon their enemies. While the other army, one comprised of the free peoples of Middle Earth, waited with bated breath for what would decide their fate. As for four friends, standing amidst the army, they seemed to have forgotten how to breathe.

 

In his feverish mind, Bilbo could only think the phrase “Out of the frying pan and into the fire” just didn’t seem to cut it.

He pressed his hand over the injury to his side. Warm thick blood flowed freely, and standing alone was a task. Pain overwhelmed the rest of his senses, but once his sight cleared he was able to grasp his precarious situation. The Witch King and his snarling creature were in front of him, both looking intently at something high above them. Bilbo shuffled slowly, and turned to look behind him.

_Smaug._

 

“Wh-what do we do?” Estel finally breathed, softly. He turned to look at the wizard, at his friend, his love, the Dwarf. Everyone, anyone! But no one spoke. “We have to do something!”

“Perhaps with a volley we can distract it somehow—” Legolas mumbled.

“I’ll take the Dwarves, we’ll charge on the other side, get him to rear up and reveal its weakness,” Thorin grit his teeth. He stopped when Gandalf lay a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Wait,” he said sternly.

The tense figures remained where they were. The only movements were slight. The fell beast’s wings twitching. The spiked sword lifting a little higher. The Hobbit’s head looking back and forth between his enemies. He looked intently at Smaug, trying to catch the Dragon’s golden eyes and lock contact. See if there were any signs at all of one who was lost. But the Dragon was not looking at him. Its gaze was intent upon the fell beast and its rider.

Bilbo turned around, facing the Witch King, his hand still holding on to his gaping wound. His face was pale and feverish sweat was careening down his neck.

Much to the eternal dismay of the robbed figure, the damn Hobbit smiled again.

Then he took a step back. And another.

Estel gasped. Arwen gripped his arm, practically burying her nails into it.

Bilbo kept walking backwards, keeping his defiant eyes on the Witch King and his monster, wincing at every step. And every tentative step bore him closer and closer to the great red Dragon. Who did not stir, or even acknowledge the small figure moving towards him.

“What is he doing?!” Thorin snapped.

To the High Elves, the Dwarves and the Rangers, in their eyes the Hobbit was forfeit. The closer he got to the Dragon, the closer he got to his death. To them, the little life was ended, and nothing more could be done but grieve.

And yet, Bilbo kept walking.

Until he was standing underneath the Dragon’s massive chest.

 

Then the fell beast came to life and tore towards the greater opponent. Smaug let out another ear shattering roar. His long serpent-like neck curved back and lunged to meet the attack. Large heavy jaws locked onto the smaller beast and with a single bite ended the standoff.

The lifeless creature was tossed onto the waiting orc armies, and with a shrill cry from their master, they blindly attempted to flee. But the Fire Drake reared upwards. The massive chest glowed a sharp bright red and hell flames erupted from the massive blood soaked jaws.

The other armies were shaken awake and charged at the fleeing screeching masses. Still they kept their numbers at a distance. While the Dragon was attacking the orc armies, they were still not convinced it was entirely on their side.

A smaller group detached itself from their army. One more concerned by the fact that in the midst of the Dragon’s rampage, they had lost sight of Bilbo. Gandalf had used the diversion to retrieve his steed, and other mounts had followed after. In a single motion, Legolas had leapt onto Bitsy’s back. Estel was about to do the same at the sight of his loyal Nykerim.

“No!” the Elf prince cried out to him. “Your people need you! Lead the Rangers up the North flank. If enough of the orcs scatter, they could strike from there!”

“What? They have Halbarad! I’m coming with you!”

“They’re massing in the wrong place,” Arwen suddenly spoke up. “You have to lead them out of it! They will listen to you!”

Estel hesitated, frozen and undecided as Legolas rode at full speed to catch up with Gandalf’s steed.

“Fili!” Thorin suddenly yelled, and his young nephew appeared at his side. “I will take the Dwarves over the ridge. We must cut off their escape! You go with them! Find master Baggins!”

Fili nodded and mounted his pony. Thorin watched for a moment as his heir caught up to Gandalf and Legolas’ vanishing figures, then he led Dwalin and the rest of his Dwarves to their battle position. It was then Estel understood the sacrifice of a leader. He knew of Thorin’s friendship with Bilbo, and what the Dwarf would do to protect him. Yet in order to continue to lead his men, he sent another in his place.

He remembered how the Rangers had come to trust him, to look to him at times. Though he still knew little of battle strategy, even he could tell their swords could be used elsewhere from the Elven army.

 _“Melnnin!”_ Arwen snapped him out of his thoughts, already mounted on Nykerim and offering her hand to him. With a heavy heart, he took it and set off to rally the Rangers, all the while a wizard, an Elf and a Dwarf rode at full speed straight into the raging Dragon’s path.

 

The Witch King retreated to his fortress, fleeing from the overpowering flames. He had trusted in his mastery over the stone, and its hold over the foul Dragon. Now his army was to be destroyed by said Dragon, and filthy Dwarves, and filthy humans and filthy—

“You will go no further!” A commanding voice spoke.

Up the winding stairs above him stood the Elf witch and her accursed light. She dared deny him entry into his own keep!

“Your rule here ended ages ago,” Galadriel spoke. Despite having been in the midst of a terrible battle, the Elf queen seemed entirely unaffected. Her feet were bare, peeking out from under her long white gown, which despite grazing the scorched grounds was also seemingly untouched.

The hideous skeletal figure hissed in dismay, but rather than face the light of the Eldar again, he intended to flee back down the steps. Only to find it too was blocked. Another loathsome she-Elf— her belly swollen with just as loathsome pups— and a filthy Dwarfling. They bared his way, the she-Elf pointing a bow and arrow and the Dwarf a large bulky sword. The Witch King raised his sword, ready to dispatch of them, but then light filled the air about them, cleansing it of the smell of death.

“Go to your cowering master and trouble these lands no more!” Galadriel ordered in a voice of ages past.

One final shriek was heard as the light grew until it became blinding. Tauriel and Kili shielded their eyes, and when they could open them again, there was naught on the steps before them but discarded worn robes and a spiked sword.

At first, the lady Galadriel started her descent down the stairs with all the dignity and elegance she could muster. But then she stumbled, and both Elf and Dwarf were by her side in an instant.

“My lady . . .” Tauriel supported her on the right, while Kili took the left.

“I’m alright,” the Elf queen smiled weakly, and looked down at Kili with a curious smile. “Thank you,” she said to him, allowing her weight to fall upon his shoulders.

Then she looked to Tauriel again and set her hand upon her belly.

“Child of Earth and Air,” she said, her mystical voice full of awe and wonderment. “May she be twice blessed.”

At the word _“she”_ , husband and wife looked to each other with eyes wide and smiles broad.

“Oh, dear,” Galadriel said in a more ordinary tone, holding her hand over her mouth, “was that meant to be a surprise?”

And the three laughed. In a fortress built for the sake of ruin and despair, there was suddenly laughter and mirth.

 

The Elves, Dwarves and Men divided their forces well, yet the battle still showed no sign of ending. Orcs poured out of caverns like ants, and even in retreat, they were vicious.

This was nothing against the wrath of a Dragon.

He tore through the orc ranks as if they were mere bread crumbs, and the fire did the rest. But Gandalf noted the battle would end sooner if he would only take flight and attack from above. Yet, he would not fly. In fact, one of his wings seemed to be curled inward, and as he walked he did not use the support of his bat-like arms, but balanced on his hind legs. This was hard, as he used the free wing to protect his chest. It proved even more difficult as thick heavy spears started flying at the Dragon.

Most were repelled by his impenetrable hide, but others seemed to cause some harm. From the oily trail that followed their flight, Gandalf assumed they were no doubt poisoned as well. The Dragon roared shrilly in pain.

Gandalf stopped his Elven steed and looked to Angmar’s fortress. On one of the high walls, he could vaguely make out orcs and trolls shuffling around and working some kind of machinery.

“Legolas! I need your keen eyes!” The Elf prince rode up to him on his Elk and turned his clear eyes to the fortress.

“Those look like Dwarvish Wind Lances, only a much rougher design.”

“Everything of the orcs is stolen and warped,” Gandalf commented with disdain.

“They may not know about the loose scale!” Fili rode up, noting how scattered the long spears had been.

“We cannot risk a lucky shot. He is still weak,” Gandalf said, his heart shrinking at the sight of Nauro in pain. Yes, despite there being a fully regenerated Smaug before him, he still saw the man he chose to protect. And as long as he lived, would protect still. “You two!” he turned to the two princes. “Get to the fortress! Hurry! Stop those spears!”

There was no questioning. Both turned their mounts to the spiked towers at full speed, while Gandalf continued his trek onwards, right into the Dragon’s fray.

 

The battle finally dwindled as the darkness started lifting from the sky, slowly turning from black to a pale hazed grey. The Elves’ front was clear of enemies, and the Rangers had succeeded in wiping out the massing ambushes. It was then the Dwarves’ small battalion returned, their axes dyed in black blood. The caverns and mines would hold no more surprises. All that was left now was the Dragon, who had turned his attention to Angmar’s fortress and was attempting to rip it down with his claws and fangs. The armies retreated further as pieces of stone, heavy metal and even entire towers were being flung into the air. It was impossible to draw near.

The poisoned spears continued to fly, despite Legolas and Fili sneaking up on the soldiers who hid in the battlements. They had spread out on various parts of the walls, and the two princes had yet to find them all. All the recovering armies could do was wait. They were not unsure whether they would still find themselves fighting a Dragon before dawn came fully.

“NAURO!” a booming voice, almost as thunderous as the Dragon’s roars, called out. The wizard walked with determined strides. He certainly caught the monster’s attention.

“STAY YOUR WRATH!” he cried out, the voice echoing off of what was left of the towers. “ANGMAR IS NO MORE! WE ARE VICTORIOUS!”

The Dragon was holding himself up on the ruins of the fortress with one long wing, while the other was still curled to his side. Perhaps he was wounded, the wizard continued to guess. Thin strips of blood were all over his body, but especially the wings. The massive long head turned from his task, and fierce golden eyes were fixed upon the wizard.

“You have no more enemies here, my friend,” the wizard said softly, but he knew the Dragon’s keen ears could hear him. “It is finished.”

Smaug hesitated for a moment, then slowly he withdrew. Settling back down on the ground, the tremendous creature advanced on the wizard, while the onlookers looked on tensely. Once Gandalf was close enough—far closer than he ever hoped to be to a Dragon—the curled wing began to unfurl, like the sails of a majestic ship. It stretched out slowly towards him, until the very tip revealed its massive hand. The Dragon’s hands looked like a monstrous hybrid of a lizard’s and a bat’s, but in this case it was closed in a firm grip, like that of a human. It was held out before Gandalf, and the long fingers opened. Practically cocooned within, was Bilbo.

The wizard was quick yet careful to remove him. The Hobbit was pale and cold, but still alive. The wound to his side was bleeding profusely. As he was lifted onto Gandalf’s arms, he weakly clung to the reptilian fingers that had protected him.

“It’s alright,” Gandalf soothed him, “let go now.”

The old man’s eyes met with the Dragon’s. For an instant, Smaug’s eyes were no longer gold but storm grey.

Once free of his charge, the wings stretched out, and for the wizard it seemed that they shut out the very sky. The Dragon then took flight, and once again the force of the wings knocked over even the sternest warrior.

Just at that moment, Legolas had found the very last orc weapon, and the very last spear being pulled into position. He threw his dagger at the orc guard, but it was too late. The stubborn thing had taken aim, and with his dying breath he was able to pull the trigger.

“NO!” the Elf prince cried out in vain.

 

Those on the ground witnessed the final spear fly and hit its mark. A terrible roar was heard, shaking the earth below their feet.

The Dragon struggled and flailed high in the air, its bat-like arms grasping at nothing, it mouth gaping wide in pain.

Then it fell.

It fell far, far across the land, and vanished behind high mountains.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvish: 
> 
> Melnnin!= My love!


	53. The Hands of a Healer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the Battle for Angmar brings a few things to light . . .

 

Chapter 53: The Hands of a Healer

 

Dawn came fully, but with a bitter taste. The fire had done terrible damage to the already foul earth, and the hovering blanket of smoke forced the army to bear their wounded far from the battlefield. The fallen were left behind. They would have to wait.

Their unfortunate fallen were few, but the wounded were many. The Elves were kept busy in healing their own as well as the rangers and only a few of the Dwarves. Lord Elrond and the lady Galadriel were in particular demand, though Arwen and Tauriel did their best in aiding those less wounded.

Gandalf was too busy with one particular patient. Legolas, Estel and Thorin had aided in bringing the wounded back, and they had also lent their strength in raising tents and securing the camp. Once they were done—and Thorin was sure his wounded few were being tended to—they went to find Gandalf and the Hobbit. They found them in one of the longer tents, though Bilbo was the only patient there. He was stretched out on a makeshift bed, his upper body bare save for thick bandages wrapped around his middle, holding down a compress where the injury was. His skin was pale and bathed in sweat, and the Hobbit himself was unresponsive.

Gandalf regarded each of the friends grimly. “The blade was not poisoned,” he said, standing from the bed. “There’s the good news. The ill news is I cannot reach him.”

Estel strode past him to Bilbo’s side. The old wizard went on.

“Warriors of old called it the Black Shadow. An ailment that would afflict those who had come in contact with the Nazgul. A crippling fever that would last for days, then they would slip into a sleep from which there is no waking.”

“Can nothing be done?” Thorin asked heavily.

Gandalf sighed, a weary frustrated sigh, as he shook his head. Estel pressed the back of his hand over Bilbo’s forehead and his neck. He mumbled something under his breath.

“What?” Legolas asked.

“A fever is a fever,” Estel said, rising to his feet and walking to the others in determined strides. At that moment, even the Elf prince was surprised by his endurance, despite the long battle. “I’ve suffered this ailment and came through. A fever is still a fever. We must treat it as such. Legolas, find Tauriel. Ask her if she brought any Athelas with her. Thorin, hot water. Be sure it’s clean!”

Only a few months ago, the Dwarf King would have been outraged by the youth’s tone, and he never would have dreamt of taking orders from a human whelp. But much had happened since. The Dwarves of Erebor would have been shocked to see their king bolt out of the tent in obedience without a moment’s hesitation. Legolas ran the other way, in search of Tauriel.

Gandalf watched entranced as the youth set about healing his friend. The carefree boy he had watched grow up in Rivendell, safe and guarded from the world, was no longer there. It was instead a regal figure of old, with wisdom and weight to his fair face. His gaze seemed lost in another realm. And his hands suddenly moved as if remembering some unpracticed skill, but a skill nonetheless.

Legolas entered with a fist full of weeds, some time after Thorin had returned with water practically still boiling. Estel crushed the plants further in his hands and let them fall into the water, keeping the bowl close to their ailing friend. When the cleansing smell of the Athelas flooded the tent, and all who stood there breathed a little easier, Legolas believed Estel meant to recreate what Tauriel had done to ease his fever. And at first, it seemed as much. He even chanted the same song, in a slower and softer tone, keeping a firm hand on Bilbo’s head.

When the Black Breath blows,

And death’s shadow grows,

And all lights pass,

Come, Athelas! Come, Athelas!

But then it was different. He dipped a fresh bit of cloth into the water, wrapping some herbs within it, and pressed it to Bilbo’s face, until thin wisps of heat rose up from the Hobbit’s damp skin. His breathing slowed, though it was now without pain. Then there was silence.

“Bilbo,” Estel’s voice broke the silence, though to all present it sounded far off. “Bilbo Baggins.” He repeated slowly, his hand still over the Hobbit’s brow. “Bilbo, son of Bungo and Belladonna, hear me. Come back.”

Such words went on for some time, as Estel called Bilbo from the brink. But there was no answer.

Thorin heaved a hefty sorrowful sigh, and hardly reacted when Legolas set a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. Even Gandalf seemed to be slouching further in defeat.

“HALFLING!” A sudden shout from the youth startled them out of their preemptive grief. “YOU _WILL_ COME TO ME NOW, HALFLING!”

Far too concerned to laugh at the youth’s ridiculous shift in tone, the others could only gape. The heavy mood was lifted entirely when a soft moan was head from the bed.

“Really now,” Bilbo mumbled wearily, “is that any way to speak to your elders . . . human brat!”

Estel laughed at this, and when Bilbo was finally able to open his eyes it was to the infectious smile of his young friend. The others breathed with relief, and Gandalf slumped onto a nearby chair, as if a terrible weight had been lifted from his shoulders. The young healer suddenly forgot the fragile state of his patient and threw his arms around him. A thin little groan escaped Bilbo’s mouth upon being crushed further into the bed, but he still lifted a heavy limb to pat the boy’s back.

“Do not . . .” he said weakly with a weak smile, “pick me up . . .”

 

There was much to do in the bustling camp, but the four friends lingered in the long tent while Bilbo’s strength returned slowly. He had managed to eat a very thin broth and some bread—which being a Hobbit he hardly considered a full meal—and it was then that the hard question was asked.

“I keep telling myself it was part of the fever, but I know—I thought I saw him fall from the sky but—it could have been a dream. Tell me, have you found him?”

Bilbo asked with hopeless hope in his voice. The three looked to Gandalf to answer, for the grief was still too near and they had not had time to duly process it.

“Smaug, the great dragon, died in Esgaroth,” Gandalf said in his grim voice, “but it was a great man who fell this morn.”

Tears fell freely from the little Hobbit’s face, and the others bowed their head for their fallen companion. Even Thorin joined in the silence with something akin to reverence.

“ _Hiro hon hidh ab ‘wanath_ ,” Legolas whispered, a hand over his heart.

 

The day went on slowly, and as the sun waned into afternoon Gandalf trudged wearily to the Lady Galadriel’s tent, with both Thorin and Legolas. The old wizard had insisted Estel joined them, but the youth was weary and refused to leave Bilbo’s side. They were in good company as the Dwarves, even those injured, flooded the tent and with songs and merriment tried to ease both their grief.

The Elf lords and ladies looked spent after an entire day of using their life force to heal. Still, in typical Elf fashion, they retained their regal demeanor. As soon as Gandalf entered, Lord Elrond approached him.

“Bilbo?” he asked, his face filled with concern.

“He lives,” Gandalf assured him, squeezing his old friend’s shoulder. Then he added with a strange smile, “Estel honored Gilraen’s memory today.”

Elrond breathed in relief. “She always believed in his skills.”

“It reminded me of something I heard long ago,” Gandalf went on, “old wives’ saying. _The hands of a king are the hands of a healer_.”

Sadness lingered in Lord Elrond’s gaze, but also a hint of pride.

Galadriel sat, draped in a silken shawl which made her look vulnerable to the cold. Lord Elrond, along with his sons, served wine and nourishment to the other guests. Gandalf was offered one of the free seats, while Legolas stood behind him. Thorin stood at the entrance of the tent, with Fili and Dwalin at his side. Halbarad was the only human, having given his second the day to recover along with the rest of his men. He had not escaped unharmed, and heartily accepted the last free chair.

“Will the lord Estel not be joining us?” he asked Gandalf.

“He is needed elsewhere,” the wizard answered with a weary smile.

“He showed great leadership in battle,” the ranger went on, looking now to Lord Elrond.

“Many qualities are revealed in battle,” Galadriel spoke, though there was no joy in her statement. “We are indeed fortunate to have such allies.”

“What of the Witch King?” Legolas asked, concerned for the Lady’s weariness.

“Like his master, he’s fled to the East. To Cirith Gorgor, no doubt. There they will wait.”

“But this time, we will not be unprepared,” Elrond declared, and many agreed.

They spoke well into evening, and vows of loyalty were exchanged. Thorin declared that his people would ever be at the service of the House of Elrond, and should he ever need council, his advisors as well as his own family would be at his disposal. Halbarad spoke long of his people and their duty to the free lands, and how should the threat in the East rise again, they would be there to counter it.

The Lady listened intently, but was silent. Only Gandalf knew why. She had spoken to him of how the time of the Elves was over, and soon this world would belong to Mortal Men. Her part in this war, she believed, was long done.

Once planning for the future was done, Legolas realized Halbarad had been watching him closely. He returned the stare questioningly.

“Forgive me,” the man started self-consciously, “but I am unsure how to proceed. It is in my nature to offer condolences when a comrade is lost.”

At this, Gandalf and Thorin exchanged glances, and Halbarad went on addressing the three of them.

“But this was no comrade, at least not in the easiest sense of the word. This was a dragon in disguise. And—you will forgive my bluntness—I do not lament his loss. It was probably for the best. I for one know the Rangers would not have endured letting a Fire Drake live, regardless of his aid in battle. And I know I am not alone in this.”

At this last declaration, he looked to Elrond’s proud sons, and though they spoke no words, it was clear they agreed with the Ranger.

For the first time in many years, it was Dwalin’s turn to stay Thorin’s rashness. The Dwarf King did not take kindly to the implications and made a motion to intercede. He stopped when he felt his friend’s firm hand on his shoulder.

All the while, Gandalf could not help but imagine what would have come to pass had Nauro survived the battle. This evening would not have been spent with talks of peace and alliances, but with debates. What was to be done with the Dragon? It would have been something more akin to a courtroom, and at its end, there would have been some kind of judgement. One way or the other, the final judgment would have only caused further rift between them all. He found himself with conflicting emotions. In spite of his sorrow, he was thankful it did not come to that.

Legolas’ face remained unreadable to all, save to the keen eye of the Lady Galadriel. There, she saw fierce grief and also guilt.

“Your particular comrade, however, baffles me,” the ranger went on, unfazed by the reactions he had provoked in the tent. “First I hear stories of this strange man who came out of nowhere and gained your love and loyalty. Then what started out as a Dragon ready to tear our armies apart ends up destroying its own keep. Even as a child I heard legends of Dragons coveting gold and precious jewels, and doing everything in their power to preserve their hoard. I never once heard of a Dragon risking life and limb for another living being. That Dragon could have easily flown up into the sky, caused the same amount—if not more—destruction, and then fly off safely to the nearest empty cavern, never to be seen again. And yet this one endured blow after blow to salvage an enemy army and protect a Halfling.”

“To protect a friend,” Legolas spoke, for the first time that evening, and all eyes were upon him. The Elf prince went on with a proud tone. “And if you had known him, you would have expected no less.”

Halbarad smiled, and shook his head bemused. He would not understand this strange tale, and perhaps he was not meant to. Still, he rose to his feet and offered a sympathetic look. His next words were directed to all who stood in the tent, though his gaze remained fixed on Legolas.

“Then I’ll say what should have been said at the beginning of this evening. I am deeply sorry for your loss.”

 

Night fell. Angmar was silent. There were no ambushes or spies skulking about. Nothing stirred at all. The silence was not peaceful. Quite the opposite. Those who stood guard hated it, fearing the eerie stillness far more than the ominous battle-ready country it once was.

When one of the Rangers returned to his comrades from his post, he looked for Halbarad as it was his watch. The leader of the Rangers was laughing, shaking his head as he surveyed the inside of his small tent.

“What is it?” the other Ranger asked. Halbarad turned to look at him.

“Someone has stolen my change of clothes.”

The other looked quite taken aback. “Who would—”

“Elves have no need for a Ranger’s travel worn clothes, and unless the Dwarves are being spiteful, I haven’t the slightest idea.” Then the man smiled amused and patted his friend on the back. “But there are far more important things to tend to.”

 

Bilbo slept, weary in body and in heart. Though he was happy to have been reunited with the Dwarves, there was little to ease his sorrow.

Gandalf snored and mumbled in his sleep, sprawled out on straw pelt on the tent’s floor. Estel was slouched on a wooden seat. Arwen had pulled another seat next to him, and the two were awkwardly dozing in each other’s embrace. Legolas sat up straight, his body alert yet his mind in repose. He had tried hard to remain awake, but weariness overcame him.

Or perhaps, it was something else.

The small fire outside died down. A tall dark figure entered the tent, stepping slowly and steadily. He stopped first at the entrance, where Legolas sat. He gripped the Elf prince’s shoulder and squeezed heartily, a parting gesture of comradery.

The figure went deeper into the tent and stopped before the couple. Despite being seated on separate chairs, they had somehow managed to sleep cuddled together. Arwen was leaning completely on Estel, her head tucked under his chin. Her hand rested on his chest, upon which he had set his own hand. A fond smile graced the figure’s lips, and he leaned in to grip the conjoined hands.

He did not approach the wizard, for fear his keener senses would wake him. But he allowed himself to watch the peaceful old man, and for the first time mimic an Elven gesture. Placing his hand upon his heart and then holding it out to him. A meager way of showing his gratitude and friendship, but it would have to do.

Finally, he approached the makeshift bed and gently sat upon it. A pale long hand reached out and settled on the Hobbit’s brow, checking his fever. Bilbo stirred, and he smiled.

“Your hands are always so cold.”

He heard a deep chuckle as the hand pulled away.

“Cold blooded, I’m afraid,” the familiar deep voice answered.

Bilbo opened his eyes, and greatly feared he was still dreaming. Nauro was there. He looked tired, and there were thin cuts on his face. Otherwise, he seemed unharmed. Despite his black curls being a little longer, he looked no different than the morning they first set out from Rivendell all those months ago. It felt good to look into those intense storm grey eyes again.

He clasped the pale hand and held it firmly. It was real. Nauro was looking at the bandages noticeable under Bilbo’s shirt, but the Hobbit shook his head.

“I’m fine. What about you? I thought—we all thought you were—”

Nauro nodded sadly. “It’s probably best if they go on thinking that. The spear came close, tore through my wing—well, arm.” He rolled up the sleeve of his shirt to reveal thick bandages roughly bound around his bicep. “I just thought I’d keep up the pretense.”

Bilbo was still confused. His attention was drawn to the clothing Nauro wore. In the cavern, during their last encounter, Nauro had appeared to be clothed in thick black robes. These clothes were not new. They were thick and suitable for travel and intense weather. Indeed, given their state, they had already endured much.

“But, those clothes . . .”

“Borrowed,” his friend answered with a mischievous smirk.

“You’re leaving,” Bilbo realized. Nauro said nothing. His sad smile answered instead. “And I can’t stop you.”

“You’re my friend, Bilbo, not my keeper,” he conjured Bilbo’s own words, from that distant night when they argued behind the falls in Rivendell. He had spoken them with the same smirk, only the Hobbit was not amused.

“Where will you go?”

“That always was the question, wasn’t it?” Nauro shrugged, then he turned to look to the outside of the tent. “The world is vast, and I have a lot to atone for.”

He turned back to his friend. “I remember, Bilbo. I remember everything I’ve done. The lives I shattered. I can never bring back the dead, but I can stop there from being anymore. The darkness is still coming.”

For a moment, Bilbo shuddered. He had heard Nauro say something like that before, in the great treasure hold of Erebor, when he was taunting him. But now it was different. Nauro’s tone was urgent.

“I never told you, but I can see things. Not as clearly as before but—I saw Sauron rising to power once. And that vision remains. He will return, and all will have a part to play.” At this, he glanced quickly at the sleeping youth, then back at Bilbo with a mysterious glint in his eye. “Even you.”

The Hobbit was about to question this, but Nauro went on.

“The all-seeing Eye searched for me, even when we were in Rivendell. I often saw it in my mind, though I didn’t know what it was. If it too believed my ruse, then there is much I can do in this form.”

Bilbo suddenly tried to sit up, wincing in pain. The smell of blood assaulted Nauro’s keen nose, and he knew the stubborn fool had just torn some of his stiches.

“Bilbo!” he gasped trying to keep him still.

“I should go with you—”

“No,” he said, keeping his hands on the smaller shoulders, “your place is in the Shire!”

“My place should be at your side! How many times have you saved my life!” Bilbo demanded, ready to argue.

“As many as you’ve saved mine,” Nauro countered, his voice soft.

Bilbo would have fought on, but he suddenly became dizzy. He lay back in his bed as Nauro fixed his bandages.

“I think,” Nauro started as the wound was redressed, “you’re too used to being needed, Bilbo Baggins. And you will be. There’s someone else who’ll need you.”

Bilbo stared confused, yet soothed by his friend’s deep voice. He refused to let the hypnotic voice ease him to sleep, so he hung on every word. Images of the Shire started playing in his mind, and he thought he heard distant singing and laughing. For a moment, behind his eyelids, he could clearly see a view of Buckland, somewhere near Brandy Hall where his family, the Brandybucks lived. But why such a clear picture entered his mind, he was not sure. He shook it away as Nauro’s voice went on.

“They will come into your life like spring after winter. And they will need your words, your songs and stories, your kindness . . . everything you’ve given me.”

Tears welled in Bilbo’s eyes, and he sobbed openly. It became all too clear that this was goodbye, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Nothing except hold onto Nauro’s hand, as tightly as he could.

“Don’t go,” he whispered, as sleep threatened to claim him.

His head fell back heavily, tears continued to fall. Nauro smiled, a sad smile. Then he leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss upon Bilbo’s brow.

“Farewell, my friend.”

The real world faded, and Bilbo fell into crystal clear images of the Shire. Before losing himself to dreams, he was sure he heard a distant voice saying . . .

_And thank you . . ._

 

Thorin had spoken long with his Dwarves about their return journey. After that he decided to check on Bilbo and made his way to the wizard’s tent. While it was still at a distance, he saw a figure exiting it. He froze, unsure if his eyes saw right. The fire had gone out, so the figure was mostly in silhouette, but even then he could make out a mess of curly hair and fine features. The figure froze, and though he could not see his face, Thorin was sure keen eyes were watching him. The Dwarf King composed himself and tilted his head in respect. The figure nodded back, then vanished into the night, a long coat flapping behind him.

Thorin went into the tent afterwards, and couldn’t help but notice how Bilbo’s pack was left wide open, and the coat he had carried for his lost friend was gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvish.   
> Legolas' prayer: Hiro hon hidh ab ‘wanath  
> Translation: May he find peace after death
> 
> It's a line from The Two Towers film, when they think the Hobbits are dead. I just changed one of the words to make it "he" as opposed to "they".


	54. Many Partings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Parting of the Ways.

 

Chapter 54: Many Partings

 

The next few days were slow and melancholy. The dead had been buried. However grievous it was to bury their fallen comrades in such a foul land, the burial itself had been dignified and words of honor and gratitude spoken over them.

Once the injured were well enough to be moved, the large company left Angmar. The going was slow, but luckily uneventful.

Bilbo tried to keep in mind that he was supposed to be grieving. Even knowing Nauro was alive, his heart was still heavy and it was not difficult maintaining the façade. He had refused to speak of Nauro, allowing the others to think it was out of grief when in truth it was out of fear of giving the secret away. However, there were times when he suspected the others were in on the secret. He had overheard Estel and Arwen talk to Legolas about how they felt at peace with Nauro’s memory, as if they had managed to say goodbye. He noted how when Gandalf referred to Nauro, he sometimes used present tense. And Thorin had once inquired after the long coat that had gone missing, with a strange glint in his eye.

If the others knew, or rather sensed, that Nauro lived, Bilbo found he did not mind it. It was a comfort to know he was not alone in his loss.

Eventually the land of Angmar and its terrible rusted gates were left far behind. They found themselves back in beautiful woods, with clean clear air and a sense of normalcy started to return. Though soon it was time to part ways.

Galadriel’s company left first. She spoke only to Gandalf before their departure, and the two walked in the woods for many hours. There was a deep melancholy in his gaze after the Lady of Light and her people departed, and it lingered for many days hence.

The Rangers announced their departure, and with little ceremony, left during the night. Halbarad had told Estel there would be a place among their ranks for him, and with parting words of friendship, departed.

That same night, Estel visited Lord Elrond once again.

“I am not going back to Rivendell.”

The Elf Lord nodded. “I feared as much. Will you follow the Rangers?”

“Yes. And Legolas says he’ll come with me.”

There was a pause, and the keen eyes seemed to search for something in the youth’s face.

“What of your birthright?” Elrond asked. Estel held his questioning gaze, but did not answer. “Is this your choice then? Self exile? To lose yourself in the wild.”

“I will not go to Gondor,” Estel spoke. “Because of my ancestor, my blood has a debt to the people of this world. But I cannot serve them on a throne, trapped under a crown. I am no king. I will serve them as best I can. With my sword and my strength. Then maybe, one day, a man better than myself will answer Gondor’s call. My own son, perhaps. But it is not me.”

The youth spoke as a man, determined and proud. His words filled with certainty. And he moved to leave the tent, as if commanding respect he had not yet earned. Lord Elrond was not satisfied.

He stood and with a single name stopped the boy in his tracks.

“Aragorn.”

It was the first time he was called by this name. And yet, it was as if he’d always answered to it. It was right. It felt right.

“Do you still intend to ask for my daughter’s hand in marriage?”

Estel turned and answered with the same determination. “One day. When the time is right. Yes.”

“Then I will give you my answer now. My daughter will marry no man but the king of Gondor.”

 

Estel was shaken by this, and stumbled out of the tent in a daze. Arwen was there to greet him. She enveloped him in her arms, and he let her warmth ease his heart.

“ _Estelnnin,_ ” she whispered.

“I cannot go by that name anymore,” the youth said suddenly, and Arwen looked up at him. “But I can’t very well use _Aragorn_ just yet.”

“Let the people give you one,” she said. “Legends of the fearsome Dunedain Rangers already roam the lands. Let your deeds find you a new name.”

They kissed. His arms tightened around her, terrified of letting go. Still holding on, their eyes met.

“I will return,” he swore.

“And I will be there.”

“You will?”

“I’ve waited hundreds of years for you,” she said, gently pulling some rebellious strands away from his eyes. “What is a few more?”

 

“Dwalin . . .”

“No.”

“Don’t be a prat!”

“Don’t make me stove your ‘ead in!”

“Just get over here!”

The gruff Dwarf stomped over, and with a sneer allowed himself to rest his hand on the She-Elf’s pregnant belly. The other Dwarves had taken a turn.

“Can you feel it?” Bofur asked excitedly. At first the Dwarf shook his head, then his eyes widened and he started laughing raucously as tiny little kicks beat against his hand.

“Oh ho ho ho ho! She’s a strong one!” he cheered.

“She’ll be swingin’ mattocks and knockin’ ‘eads off!” Bofur exclaimed.

“Aye, 'specially if she gets her mother’s height, eh!” Nori added.

And the Dwarves laughed loudly. Bilbo looked at them in outrage, but Tauriel smiled amused. Her child would probably struggle with many things in her life, but if nothing else she would never lack crazy uncles.

Both Fili and Kili talked long, and waited anxiously for their uncle to join them. And when he did, the raucous laughing was cut short and tension followed.

“Thorin,” Fili began, his voice tight. “I formally ask permission—”

Thorin held up his hand and the Dwarf prince was silent. He looked to Kili and spoke in his regal voice.

“When the infant is old enough to travel, you will bring him—”

“Her,” Tauriel interjected.

Thorin paused, looking sternly at the Elf. “ _Her_ to Erebor, and we will hold the proper naming ceremony. She will be one of Durin’s proud folk.”

Kili could not stop the tears of joy. When Tauriel embraced him, he was caught between laughter and sobs.

“The lady Dis is on her way to our home as we speak,” she spoke to Thorin. “We want our child to be born in our new home, with family.” And her eyes pointed at Fili’s waiting figure.

Thorin turned to him. “I expect you back before the month is out.”

Fili smiled with relief, and nodded. There was a feast that night, and even some Elves joined the Dwarves in their merry making. There was little ale, much to the Dwarves’ disappointment, so they had to settle for Lord Elrond’s wine.

Tauriel sighed at the sight of anyone drinking, and while there was dancing on long tables and loud singing, she looked for someone in particular. As she suspected, she found him far from the party, lost in his own little world.

“I was not aware we still needed lookouts. The danger is behind us.”

Legolas started at Tauriel’s approach. She smiled to herself; despite the extra weight she could still sneak up on him.

“Just . . .” he avoided her gaze, looking out towards dark woods, “needed some air.”

“You were never one for parties.”

He glanced at her thoughtfully, then turned away. They stood in silence for a time, while Tauriel continued to stare at her friend.

“Legolas,” she started softly, “you know I have no family. But I’ve always considered you— That is—” She fumbled, unsure. There was much history between the two, and Tauriel knew well enough of Legolas’ feelings. And it grieved her that she could not return them. She found no words to say everything she wanted to say.

Instead, she gently pulled his face towards her, and with tear-filled eyes she asked; “Will you not give me your blessing, _mellonnin_?”

He sighed in defeat. He could no more sever her from his life than he could sever Estel.

“You are happy?” he asked.

She smiled. “I am. But are you?”

He had no answer to this. Far too much remained uncertain. Tauriel caressed her pregnant belly, and shook her head. “Kili will no doubt fill this little one’s head with songs and stories of caverns deep and misty mountains. But I will tell her about the stars, and how bright they shone over Mirkwood. I hope I can one day show it to her.”

She suddenly laughed when Legolas did not respond. “Meaning, you’d better take that throne and lift my ban. I want my child to see the woods we grew up in!”

He too chuckled and nodded. “One day. But not yet.”

They smiled, until Tauriel started and held her belly. She gasped in pain, and Legolas betrayed his concern by holding on to her arms. The pain passed quickly and she laughed.

“Just a kick,” she assured him, and kept laughing while shaking her head. “Ooh! I think she’s eager to see this world.”

Legolas started to remove his hand from her shoulder, but she caught it and held it tightly.

“She’ll have quite a collection of Dwarven uncles to shower her with gifts,” she said, holding his hand close to her face. “Do you think I could tell her that one day an Elven uncle will appear and shower her with as much love?”

There were no more words spoken. The Elf prince merely smiled fondly and nodded.

 

A smaller group parted from Lord Elrond’s company and traveled together for the rest of the day, until they could prolong the hours no more and it was time to part.

Tauriel and her two Dwarven princes headed South, her hawk flying above them. The Dwarves shouted many words of friendship and good fortune until the three figures and their mounts vanished into a thick sea of trees.

The Dwarves of Erebor were to head North East. Before then, Bilbo and Thorin went off on their own, walking in the surrounding woods. It was there, at a good distance from their company, that Bilbo presented him with a gift. Wrapped in one of his salvaged handkerchiefs—he’d discovered a few hidden away in his pack—were the three Dwarf rings. Two that had stolen by Sauron, centuries past, and the third belonging to the house of Durin.

Thorin regarded his father’s ring with a terrible melancholy, as well as something akin to relief. He clasped it in a tight fist, which he held against his chest, then wrapped it again with the other two.

“It would seem I am once again in your debt, master Baggins,” Thorin said, his throat tight with emotion.

“Free of charge, this time,” Bilbo joked.

“Where did you find it?”

“I snuck into Angmar’s fortress. Took me ages, and I had to keep the ring on for almost whole days. The Witch King usually brooded in a large chamber in the tallest tower. Luckily the armies distracted him and I could enter unnoticed. I never once thought he might be able to see me, if I had known—” and he shuddered at the memory of the spectral king and his spiked sword. Those terrible dead eyes piercing through him. He shook away the dark memory and cleared his throat. “There was a large chest there, unlocked. Just thought I’d take a look.”

Thorin looked at him with curiosity. “You told me Nauro was in the caverns. Why would you go into the fortress?”

“I was after this.”

The Arkenstone gleamed with various hues under the early afternoon sun, and Thorin froze at the sight of it. Old fears seized Bilbo, and he kept the precious stone out of reach, gripped firmly in his hands.

“I just thought it controlled him, somehow,” he went on nervously. “But then Gandalf told me about the Necromancer.” Thorin tore his eyes away from the stone. Bilbo went on to recount Gandalf’s story of meeting Nauro and learning the stone’s importance. The Dwarf king’s eyes glinted with rage at the defilement of the prized gem, but then a shadow seemed to pass over his face. Rage was replaced with wonder, and he once again looked upon the stone as if it were something sacred.

“Then . . . his life force is bound to this,” he said, his voice low.

“Was.”

Thorin looked up to Bilbo. The Hobbit was looking at him piercingly.

“His life force _was_ bound to it,” Bilbo said, his tone stern. “I mean, Nauro _is_ gone after all.”

The Dwarf king nodded. “Right.”

“It’s just a stone now,” Bilbo said, his eyes desperately studying Thorin’s.

“More than that,” Thorin said. “It is the legacy of my people. The king’s jewel.”

He held out his gloved hand. Bilbo hesitated, gripping the stone even tighter.

“And it shall be protected . . .” Thorin stated, his gaze proud and intent. “Preserved by my House, and my heirs, unto the ending of the world.”

Bilbo eased his hold on the stone. He felt he had no right to ask this of Thorin, but he could think of no place safer but the vaults of Erebor for such a precious charge.

“You have my word,” Thorin said at last, offering out both hands.

“It’s all I need,” Bilbo sighed and, not without a moment’s hesitation, set his friend’s life in the hands of the King Under the Mountain. He gripped Thorin’s hand as the stone was passed on, and his friend squeezed back, the vow sealed.

“I meant what I said, Bilbo,” Thorin said as he stowed away the ring and the stone safely among his possessions. “The gates of Erebor will always be open to you.”

Bilbo smiled, suddenly realizing how happy such a thought made him. “And the door of Bag End to you. Assuming you could find your way, of course.”

The two laughed. Thorin’s hand reached out and placed itself on the back of Bilbo’s neck, bringing both their heads together. They stayed that way for some time, stating in that one gesture what a thousand words couldn’t express.

“Until we meet again, Thorin.”

“Farewell, master burglar.”

 

And then there were four. Bilbo and Gandalf watched the Dwarves of Erebor march away, back to their much deserved homeland. Legolas and Estel packed up the camp and readied the mounts. Bilbo approached them, sad at parting from his friends once more.

“Well,” he said, awkwardly swinging his arms at his sides, “this is it then.”

“You’re going back to the Shire?” Legolas asked.

“Yes, I think it’s time,” Bilbo sighed, weariness clear in his voice. “I asked Lord Elrond if he could send my belongings to Hobbiton. He agreed to send my gold so I can buy back my home and all that, but he refused to send any of my books or clothes. He said my quarters will remain untouched, and that they will be waiting for me in Rivendell.”

“It’s kind of him.”

“What about you two?”

“The Rangers went on to Gundabad,” Estel said. “We’ll have to track their going, but we should meet them soon.”

“Tracking them won’t be easy,” Legolas noted.

“Yes, but you are blessed with the company of the finest tracker in all the lands,” Estel held out his arms, as if expecting praise.

Bilbo watched the youth for a moment, then shook his head. He still had trouble believing Gandalf’s tale about a hidden prince, his true name kept secret from the rest of the world. It was all far too romantic, like a story in Lord Elrond’s study.

“Well, that wasn’t very kingly,” he said, smiling. Estel was smiling too, but it was clear he was not amused. “Really, I leave you alone for a few days and you go and become king.”

“I am no king, Bilbo,” the boy said.

“Not right now,” the Hobbit said, regarding both his friends. “Two runaway princes. Now, that is the stuff of legend.”

Both Estel and Legolas looked at him awkwardly.

“And when the time comes, you’ll both make fine kings. But that is further down the road!” he said quickly before Estel could protest again. “For now I can only wish you luck and pray that you find the answer you seek.”

 

The camp was cleared, and the mounts were saddled and all their gear packed. Gandalf waited with his Lórien steed and Myrtle the pony. Legolas and Estel had said their goodbye to the wizard, and both Bitsy and Nykerim waited for them.

Bilbo stood at a distance, looking out towards the lands they were turning away from. Lands that stretched out far and vast before them. As far as his Hobbit gaze could see, they were beautiful, green and bountiful. But he knew that farther still, there was darkness.

“Bilbo?” Estel asked softly as he and Legolas approached him.

“It’s funny,” the Hobbit answered in a dazed voice. “I promised him we’d all return to Rivendell together. Turns out, none of us are going back.”

There was a moment of grief as all thoughts turned to their missing friend.

“Maybe not at the moment,” Estel broke the silence. “But as you’re so fond of saying, none of us can say what lies ahead. And the road is long.”

“When did you get so wise?” Bilbo said, clearing his throat.

Estel smiled warmly down at him and placed a hand on his shoulder. Legolas looked out to the far lands, his eyes seeing further than the Hobbit. He preferred to look back at the two by his side.

“May we all meet there again someday,” he said.

 

Bilbo stayed put, waving at the fading figures as they rode back North.

“It is time, Bilbo,” Gandalf said.

But the Hobbit did not move.

“Things end, my dear friend,” the wizard said, standing next to Bilbo. “It’s simply the way of the world.”

“I know that,” Bilbo countered, sighing tiredly. “It’s just—never so simple, is it.”

He fumbled uneasily before going on, looking up at Gandalf. “Someone said the darkness was coming, and we’d all have a part to play in stopping it. Suppose I just . . .” Gandalf stared at Bilbo expectantly, his eyebrows questioning. The Hobbit turned and pointed towards the west, to their destination, and he waved his arms in that direction. “Just over those mountains, a few leagues West, you reach the Shire. Right? I never realized how close the Shire is to all this,” and his voice wavered.

The old wizard spoke in a calm voice. “The Dunedain Rangers patrol these lands, and now you’ve got two allies among their ranks. They will keep the Shire safe. But tell me, who told you about this darkness?”

“A friend,” Bilbo said, his gaze set.

Gandalf nodded. “There, you’ve got quite a few of those out here,” he said, patting his small friend’s shoulder, “to keep the darkness at bay.”

Then they turned from the view of the vast lands and headed towards the quiet West.

 _At last,_ Bilbo thought to himself.

 

 

 

**38 years later**

 

Brandy Hall was bustling. Entire Hobbit families were working hard to set up the party preparations. Mountains of food, barrels upon barrels of ale, games for the little ones, music rehearsed for dancing. Everyone was thrilled, but the Brandybucks knew how to throw a good party.

Everyone save the birthday boy.

He really couldn’t be bothered. He had found a good patch of fresh grass overlooking the main road, and there he had settled since the morning, scribbling away at his journal. No one disturbed him. They knew he was on the lookout.

A cart appeared, moving towards Brandy Hall. An aged brown pony with a darker mane pulled the wooden cart at a steady pace. A single figure rode atop the cart, and the back was laden with presents and some fireworks. At the first sound of the creaking wheels, the boy leapt to his feet and bounded down the hill at full speed. By the time he’d reached the road, the cart had pulled into the Brandy Hall’s vast gardens and already some helpful Hobbits were helping the driver unload the crates.

“Bilbo!”

Bilbo Baggins turned in time to see a head of thick black curls bounding towards him. He was very nearly knocked over as two eager arms wrapped around him and the smaller body slammed into his chest.

“Oof! Hello, Frodo my lad!” Bilbo laughed as the arms squeezed tighter.

“It’s wonderful to see you, Bilbo!” the younger Hobbit beamed at him. “Happy birthday!”

“And a happy birthday to you.”

“I was expecting you yesterday!”

“Ah, well, had to do a stop first,” and he pointed at the crates of fireworks. “Courtesy of Gandalf. He may not make it this year, sadly, but he hopes these will make up for it.”

“I hope Myrtle was alright pulling all this,” Frodo said, patting the weary old pony’s neck.

“Oh, she’s fine,” Bilbo ruffled her long mane. His loyal pony was getting on in years, but she was strong enough for some treks, as long as she was given time to rest. “These fine gentlemen can handle all this. How about a walk?”

As they walked away together, the remaining Hobbits continued to unload the cart. One of them, an older farmhand, watched the two retreating figures and shook his head.

“Nothin’ good will come of it,” he said under his breath, but loud enough for the others to hear.

“Of what?” his friend asked.

“That mister Bilbo. ‘Ees a queer one. ‘Aven’t you noticed? Ee ‘asn’t aged a day. But I reckon ee´s about my age now.”

“What? Can’t be! ‘Ee looks no older than fifty.”

“Aye, no older than the day ‘ee came back from abroad. Maybe them Elves did somethin’ or other.”

“Ah, ‘ee’s just well-preserved.”

“It’s not natural! None of it. I tell you, young mister Frodo’d be better off not gettin’ involved with ‘im. Nothin’ good will come of it.”

The other Hobbit just shook his head and went back to work, shrugging off his older friend’s words as exaggerations, harmless gossip.

 

It had been eight years since Bilbo’s cousins, Drogo and Primula, had tragically lost their lives and left their only son alone. He’d been taken in by the Brandybucks of Brandy Hall and raised in comfort and love. But twice a year, Bilbo would make the journey from Hobbiton to visit him. Once for Yule, and then for his birthday on September 22nd, which also happened to be Bilbo’s birthday. He’d been heavily involved in the boy’s education, and Frodo would come to Bag End during the spring to stay for a few weeks.

In Frodo, Bilbo had found a kindred spirit, and the boy lived for Bilbo’s stories. The year before he had expressed an interest in learning both Elvish and Khuzdul. Bilbo decided starting with Elvish would be easier.

As they walked around a small pond, Bilbo’s fingers fretted nervously.

“What is it?” Frodo asked.

“Hmm?”

“Well, you always fidget when you’re about to say something.”

Bilbo laughed softly. “Quite right. Truth is, I’ve been thinking. It’s rather troublesome really.”

Frodo turned to him nervously.

“Coming all the way out here, to celebrate.”

The boy bowed his head, fearful this meant the end of Bilbo’s visits.

“I was thinking, what if you came to live in Bag End?”

The head full of black curls looked up instantly, and wide eyes grew wider.

“Really? Are—are you sure?”

“I know you’ve made a home here, but the Brandybucks have their hands full already with all your little cousins, and imminent cousins. They can always come and visit, there’s plenty of rooms. Bag End is really far too big just for me, and if you were to live there we could celebrate our birthdays comfortably. And I know little Sam Gamgee would love it. Really, the little one won’t even come round anymore if you’re not visiting—”

“Yes!”

Bilbo turned surprised as Frodo went on excitedly.

“Yes! Yes, of course! When can I move in? After the celebrations? I don’t have many things!”

Bilbo laughed. “I’ll have to talk to Saradoc and Esmeralda, but we shall see.”

Frodo’s smile grew wider and he declared: “I’d better see how to pack my books!” And before Bilbo could stop him, he was off bounding towards Brandy Hall.

Bilbo stayed by the pond.

It was eerie how much the boy reminded him of his old friend. With the thick matted black curls and his overall appearance. Frodo was very Elvish looking, with pale skin and much finer features. Also his passionate and eager approach to the world and everything in it.

Not the eyes though. They were not the haunting grey of an oncoming storm. Rather like the clear blue skies that come in its wake.

Bilbo looked out to the sun bathed green hills of the Shire. There had been no sign of the darkness Nauro had warned him of, nor of any part he had to play. But once he had heard of his favorite little cousin being orphaned, Bilbo believed he had found the person he was meant to care for.

Perhaps, he thought to himself, that in itself was his part to play.

He stuck his hands in his pockets and twiddled the ring in his fingers, then he made his way up the path from the pond, towards the busy Hall.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m semi following the chronology of the Jackson films. Supposedly, Frodo is 34 when the fellowship is formed. Here, he is about 15 when Bilbo takes him in.
> 
> Bilbo was 51 when he went on the adventure. For Hobbits, this isn’t as old, it’s the equivalent of being middle aged. In my pretty little head, 38 years later he still looks the same. Blame the ring! 
> 
> Elvish:   
> Estelnnin: "My Estel" though technically she could be saying "My hope" :P  
> Mellonnin: my friend


	55. Epilogue: The Road Goes Ever Ever On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Bilbo disappears from his own long expected birthday party, the journey doesn't end there.

 

Chapter 55: Epilogue, The Road Goes Ever Ever On . . .

 

**19 years later**

 

Bilbo stepped outside of Bag End, breathing in the night’s air. He could hear the chaotic sounds from the party, with several voices calling his name. He needed to hurry if he did not want to be caught.

“I’ve thought of an ending for my book,” he announced to the night sky, then he turned to Gandalf, who was standing in the round doorway. “ _And he lived happily ever after till the end of his days_.”

“And I’m sure you will, my dear friend,” Gandalf knelt before him.

Bilbo was glad Gandalf had calmed down. It had been a tense parting, between Gandalf demanding he leave his precious ring behind and Bilbo fervently refusing to. In the end, Bilbo had agreed to leave his ring to Frodo, as well as his beloved Bag End and all its possessions. This had eased the old wizard, and now they could part as friends.

“Goodbye, Gandalf,” Bilbo offered his hand.

“Goodbye, dear Bilbo,” Gandalf took it, and with a fond smile offered a wink.

Bilbo smiled back. He did not know when he would see his friend again, but he was sure he was going to miss him. Taking one more deep breath, he stepped onto the path, singing softly to himself.

_The road goes ever on and on, down from the door where it began, now far ahead the road has gone and I must follow if I can . . ._

His keen ears still caught Gandalf’s parting words: “Until our next meeting.”

He did not look back, continuing on his way. A dark figure crept along after him, keeping to the shadows.

 

He walked for quite some time, eventually staying off the path so he could avoid being seen. The road was long, and he was eager to see Rivendell again, to see Lord Elrond and the lady Arwen. He wondered if Estel would be there. He knew his friend no longer answered to that name, but Bilbo could not quite get used to his new name: Strider. The last time he visited Rivendell, he had met a travel-weary man with a grim face, though he still retained some of his youthful silliness.

He had learned that Legolas returned to Mirkwood years ago, and had made peace with his father. He also maintained contact with the Dwarves of Erebor and their lives in the Mountain. He hoped he would see them all before this new journey’s end.

Once he felt he was far enough, he looked back to the Party Tree. The hanging lights still glittered, and several groups were visibly riled up and looking here and there for their missing host. Most of the guests, however, had returned to the celebration, and even some youngsters played music and danced.

He sat down on a stump and caught his breath. Bilbo looked no older than when he returned to the Shire after his prolonged adventure, but he felt the years in his bones. He tired easily and found himself less energetic. His senses, however, remained keen. Even better than when he was young. He did not deceive himself in calling it “luck” or “good preservation.” He was well aware of the effects the ring had on him.

He used his keen eyes to find Frodo among the party Hobbits. He spotted him close to the Party Tree, surrounded by friends. As far as he could see, it was loyal Samwise, his girl Rosie Cotton, the two rascals Merry and Pippin, and Fatty Bolger. Frodo seemed very calm, and even laughing with the others. It’s possible he was putting on a brave face, which he normally did so others would not worry about him. But Bilbo also considered that Frodo, always so perceptive, had known well enough of his plans to sneak off. And thus had come to peace with it all.

The old Hobbit still wished he could go down there and comfort the boy.

Dry leaves crunched behind him under heavy weight. Bilbo smiled.

“And how much longer do you intend to creep around?”

The cloaked figure stepped out from the shadows and towered over the Hobbit. The moon’s light flooded the clearing, and a dark hood was thrown back. Perhaps some stray white hairs, and a bit of gray in a thin beard. Other than that, Nauro looked the same.

To Nauro’s eyes, Bilbo too was unchanged, except for his eyes. They were aged and weary, but still full of light.

“Looked like quite the party,” Nauro said, glancing at the scene below.

“It was,” Bilbo nodded. “Couldn’t have wished for a better send off.”

“Still, bit dramatic, wasn’t it? The whole “why shouldn’t I keep it” or “you want it for yourself”. You might as well have gone on all fours and called it your precious.”

“Well, aren’t we the critic?” Bilbo scoffed, though even he would admit he might have exaggerated in order to fool Gandalf. “If I hadn’t made a fuss about leaving it, he would never have believed me. Luckily my father’s wedding band looked enough like it.”

He then pulled out the ring from his pocket and twirled it in the air.

 

It had been almost six months since Bilbo had woken to strange noises in the middle of the night. Upon investigating, he found Nauro waiting for him in his study. Every time Bilbo thought he’d never see his friend again, Nauro would appear out of the woods with a new tale to tell or asking for his help. This sometimes involved hiding out in Bag End or even having Bilbo going off with him into the wild for short periods of time. As far as the world was concerned, Nauro was dead, and he was careful to remain out of sight. Bilbo kept the secret, even from Frodo.

In truth, Nauro had been secretly coming and going to the Shire for many years, but then there had been two decades of silence. Then he reappeared that night, six months past. Nauro told Bilbo of his travels, which had led him to Mordor. It was only when he’d been close enough to Sauron he realized he had felt that presence before. Not in the treasure hold of Erebor, but rather in Bilbo’s magic ring. He’d made his way back to the Shire urgently and told Bilbo all he knew about Sauron and the ring’s powers. Suddenly, Bilbo’s memories of the pitiful creature Gollum made sense. And the thought that he himself was on the same path frightened him. The ring affected him, of that there was no doubt. Not just in terms of his life span, or preserving his body from the passage of years. He found himself constantly thinking of it, worried if it was gone or stolen. He’d become more suspicious of others, and overly wary of strangers. He found he craved existing in the hazy world of the ring, and feeling the power of being invisible; the power he held over all others. This went against his very nature, and it frightened him.

It was then they began to plan. The ring needed to be destroyed. For the Shire, for all of Middle Earth. It needed to be taken back to Mount Doom and cast into the same fire used to forge it. Only then could it be destroyed, as well as any chance for Sauron to rise again.

When Bilbo had offered the ring to Nauro, his friend refused it. He did not trust himself with it, or that he would be able to withstand its call. So Bilbo knew what he had to do, and started planning his leaving the Shire.

 

“He won’t be happy when he realizes you kept the real thing,” Nauro grinned mischievously.

“Yes, well, he owes us both,” Bilbo shrugged, putting the ring back in his pocket. “See how he likes being kept in the dark for once. By the time he figures it out, perhaps it will all be over. After everything you told me about this cursed thing, there was no way I was giving it to Frodo. And if Gandalf thinks for one moment I’d endanger that boy, he’s got another thing coming!”

Nauro looked out to the party scene. His own far-seeing gaze fell on Frodo; the young Hobbit was smiling and talking calmly to several guests. He was surrounded by friends, and yet standing alone.

“He’s grown,” the pale man said fondly.

Bilbo followed his gaze, and remembered the—well, incident, as he called it when Frodo was very little and both his parents were still with them. His infant nephew had become accidentally involved in one their strange adventures, which included a band of rebel Dwarves and some impromptu burgling . . . but that was a story for another time.

“Of course,” Bilbo said, “it’s been almost thirty years since you last saw him. He was just a small child then.” He sighed. “I did think of asking him to come with us, but no. He’s still in love with the Shire, and this is where he belongs.”

Then Frodo was called away by his two cousins, who eagerly led him to the few dancers. He allowed himself to be dragged away, laughing awkwardly. The young Hobbits disappeared behind the Party Tree, and only their laughter could vaguely be heard past the lively music.

“We have to save the Shire,” Bilbo said with determination, “for them.”

Bilbo shouldered his packs and jumped to his feet. Nauro suddenly seemed hesitant.

“Bilbo . . .” he started slowly, “when we destroy it, you do know that—well, you won’t stay as you are.”

The Hobbit smiled weakly. He had thought of it, and he feared imagining what it would be like when his long years would catch up to him, once the ring was gone. Would he even survive such a transformation? Would they be able to escape the horrors of Mordor with him in such a weakened state?

He had no answers to these questions. And he did not think it necessary to dwell on them, for now. He looked up at his friend, who already looked grief-stricken as he no doubt wondered the same questions. Then Bilbo thought perhaps Nauro was looking further into the future. The strange man did seem to age, but far more slowly than normal men. But Nauro was not a Man. There was no telling how long he would live. But they both knew he would undoubtedly outlive the Hobbit.

“Well, don’t go burying me yet!” Bilbo said with a laugh. “I’ll have you know, there’s still plenty of life in me. Besides, I intend to beat the Old Took! He lived to be 130, you know.”

And Nauro smiled, a genuine warm smile. The night wind shifted, and Bilbo shuddered.

“We’d better get going,” Nauro said with a cat-like grin, “don’t want you catching your death in this cold, old man.”

“How dare you! You’re older than me, dragon!”

And they set off, through paths untrodden. The moon went higher and higher into the night sky, and the Shire slept. Only the gentle sounds of peaceful woods accompanied them.

“I sent word to Lord Elrond,” Bilbo started. “I told him I was going on a new adventure and would need some time in Rivendell to rest. I also told him I’d have a traveling companion. I did not say who.”

Nauro’s eyebrow shot up, and he couldn’t’ stop a grimace. “Well, that will be interesting.”

“You’ve been dead long enough. Besides, I’m not so sure how well your little charade worked on them.”

The pale man shrugged. It had been many years of wandering the wild, going where he was needed, and stopping Sauron’s forces when he learned of any attempt to spread his power past the Eastern borders. He kept his face hidden, even when he encountered old friends he would not reveal himself. It was a bit of a relief to walk freely again.

He was summoned out of his thoughts by Bilbo chuckling.

“What?” he asked.

“I told you we’d go back to Rivendell together,” the Hobbit said, his smile wide. “We just took the long way around.”

Nauro scoffed and shook his head. He clapped Bilbo on the back and they walked side by side. He would not deny the thought of returning to Rivendell brought great comfort to his heart.

It was what he imagined coming home would feel like.

 

The End

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it ends. 
> 
> Wow, I can’t believe I’ve been at this fic for nine months! It was a great comfort to me while I started my new job and struggled through it. I scribbled notes for it during boring meetings, I planned it out when needing to de-stress. Whenever I needed to unwind, I could sit down and work on this. I actually feel like I’m gonna miss it . . .
> 
> Which is why I admittedly left it open for either standalone stories (like how Frodo met Nauro) or even a sequel (wink wink). For the time being though, I’m afraid this is where it ends. 
> 
> It was also amazing getting so much encouragement from people’s comments and kudos. Thank you so much to those who’ve been here from the very beginning and being patient with hiatuses, and thank you to those who caught up and asked for more. 
> 
> I can’t really express to you guys how much it meant to get your comments. I have something of a thankless job, so when work of yours is enjoyed, it can make all the difference.
> 
> Anyhoo, thank you thank you thank you for reading, I really hope you enjoyed it and I bid you all a very fond farewell!


End file.
